


World Full Of Nothing

by bemorenatural



Category: American Psycho - All Media Types, American Psycho - Fandom, Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Blood, Blood and Gore, Conditioning, Consensual Non-Consent, Consensual Violence, Daddy Kink, Decapitation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Fear of Death, Forced Bonding, Forced Orgasm, Fucked Up, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Incest, Kidnapping, Loss of Innocence, Loss of Virginity, Minor Character Death, Murder, Older Man/Younger Woman, Poetry, Psychological Trauma, Psychopaths In Love, Rape/Non-con Elements, Serial Killers, Sexual Violence, Stockholm Syndrome, Violence, Virginity, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-14 22:24:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 48,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3427742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bemorenatural/pseuds/bemorenatural
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of her boyfriend's death and the disappearance of his secretary, Clara Oswald and Patrick Bateman begin a journey that could ultimately destroy both of them. / This story includes graphic content and adult situations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written by Mattsmithissexy (Rach) and CosmicSouffle (Tori) from Tumblr.  
> It's also worth mentioning that in this universe - Patrick looks like Matt Smith.  
> Comments are love <3.

CLARA.

 

It doesn't hit her that he's dead for days. She wakes up in the morning expecting him to be in bed too, or to be getting their breakfast ready, or even to be out jogging, stopping by her flat just to say hello. Sometimes, she thinks they had a fight, that he's just taking a break from her, but then she remembers that person on the phone. To think that she'd told him she loved him for real just then - she never had before. Each time was half-hearted, but she'd finally decided she could separate her feelings for the Doctor and her feelings for Danny. Unfortunately, the universe seems to hate her. Or maybe she's just really, really good at losing things before she ever has the chance to say how she feels.

 

The only reason she eventually even considers Danny's death is because it's the day of his funeral. She's in a black dress, wearing makeup, her hair done up. It doesn't feel right. She should still be in her sweats, taking time off from work, hiding in her flat and drinking as much wine as she can possibly stomach. However, it is a duty, she supposes; to hide the dark circles under her eyes, to act like she's going to be okay.

 

She drives herself, which is a terrible idea. Each time she's at a stop sign she can only let the flashbacks roll, but each is the same.

 

_I love you._

_No answer._

_Stranger._

_Dead._

It's a cycle that never ends. It makes her stomach churn, her cheeks flush, and her eyes get hot. Tears are now slipping down her cheeks - but she'd been smart enough to wear waterproof mascara. In her car, she's safe, so she stays there for a long time, head pressed against the wheel of the car as she lets herself cry. Danny is gone, and her already shattered heart's been stepped on yet again.

 

PATRICK.

 

He doesn't recognise her straight away. Her clothes are slightly different; more slutty. Her hair's been cut shorter and if it wasn't for that stupid smile he wouldn't be any the wiser. She's acting that coy way she use to whenever he complimented her outfit or pretended to be interested in her life. She is - Jean - his secretary who was in love with him. She makes it so fucking obvious that she dreams of marrying him, playing happy families the way that Evelyn had wanted him to; the way that every woman always wanted him to.

 

Every fibre of his being is now frustrated. She's made him late; his meeting at the Shard will be put on hold. His two o'clock will have to be moved and it's all because of that shit new secretary he's hired. Her name is Sarah, Sara or Sandra and she has long ginger, blonde or brown hair. It's one of those. Ginger. Definitely. Much longer than Jean's. His future wife has disappeared. He hadn't noticed for a few days because he'd got caught up with Netflix. He'd watched a series on time travel; factual and presented by a slim blonde with an American accent.

 

London had been good to him. Everything was going almost perfectly until he spotted his former secretary laughing and smiling with a chump. He'd presumed he'd simply forgotten what he'd done with her body. He doesn't always remember their names, when and where he fucks them; but Jean is different. She's … Jean. It had been subconsciously puzzling him since the week she hadn't come in to work; two weeks last Tuesday.

 

She doesn't see Patrick Bateman; because of course he doesn't exist. He's driving past them and half inclined to attend that meeting he's late to. But then the sickeningly happy couple leave each other's side and his not-to-expensive car is following her new lover casually. The man wanders around a lot, stops somewhere for lunch and eats something tedious. Patrick waits in the car park, ready for when he leaves.

 

The smug git answers the phone gleefully when his girlfriend calls him. He isn't talking much and Patrick's head fills with Jean whispering sweet nothings and he feels sick. He has to rid her of this ugly prick she seems to have left him for.

 

CLARA.

 

Eventually she forces herself out of her car - and quite honestly she's got an issue with cars now. The fact that that's what killed her Danny, she doesn't even know how she's driven all the way here. Outside, the sun is shining, and she's angry about that. The sky should be crying because of his death, but instead it's celebrating that he's gone. It is rejoicing that someone is being buried.

 

If only she could control the weather. If only she could control time. But the thing is that she can't, so she's stuck heading toward a funeral. She's the first one there other than Danny's adoptive mother; a nice woman, but far too nice for Clara's liking at the moment. They're having the funeral outside in the open where anyone can see - and Danny has to be honoured like a soldier after all. She isn't looking forward to it, and as faces show up also donned in black clothing, all making conversation as preparation for his burial continues, she finds herself lost. This sea of black is engulfing her and she wants to get out.

 

\------------

 

His family seems very comforting. They comfort her; often and in public. He's shocked the whole of London hasn't attended the funeral of her dead soldier boyfriend; they've heard enough people crying about it. There's hundreds (or what seems like hundreds) of children at the funeral. He's jealous they get to experience this so young; the rush of watching a body be thrown into the dirt. It's not the best thing in the world but it beats algebra. He was a teacher; a friend of a friend. She couldn't have loved him. No fucking way. A few weeks ago she'd asked what his favourite soup was. She was incredibly obsessed with one Patrick Bateman.

 

Now she's standing by the grave of Danny Pink, hardly having a moment to herself as people fuss over her. He plays the good samaritan and approaches a woman Jean's staring at - convinces her to take the children away and leave the poor lady to grieve. Then he finds himself alone with his old friend, dressed in black but with sunglasses on and a small frown placed on his face. "My condolences"

 

The world - her world - has ended, and yet it never actually stops. It keeps moving, people keep saying things to her, and there are too many pleasantries given to count. After a while the faces blur together, the names, the 'I'm sorry's. But whenever he appears, it does, in fact, stop. If her heart wasn't already completely crushed, if the universe hadn't proved itself enough, it now plays this trick on her. The sunglasses hardly sway her, because she knows every single millimeter of him.

 

Sometimes they'd stand in the TARDIS and she would just stare and stare at him until she had a map in her head of every molecule that made up the Doctor. Though he's not acting like the Doctor, because whomever this may be, it's not her Doctor. She starts to take a step back, looking him up and down, because she could very well be wrong.

 

"Doctor?" She breathes, eyes wide.

 

"So are you going with mentally ill....or plain old sick?" Patrick muses, trying to act like he doesn't give a crap. What good reason could she possibly come up with for disappearing off the face of the Earth to shack up with him? "I'm sure i'm the best doctor you could have right now though," he assures with the hint of a smile. "Where have you been?"

 

No, not the Doctor. Definitely not the Doctor. This person seems cold to her, and like someone who demands attention be brought to them. The Doctor doesn't demand, just receives, in fact most of the time she thinks he wishes the attention to be brought to everything other than him. And this young face, she saw it go just about a year or so before. She stares at him for a while.

 

"I'm not going for ‘mentally ill or plain old sick’, unless you happen to see being heartbroken as a sickness. I've got no clue who you are, so either express more of your earlier condolences or please, just leave me alone to mourn."

 

"Heartbroken? You've known him five minutes." the man snorts, placing a hand on her shoulder and watching her in disbelief. She's an absolute wreck. He's resisting the urge to slap her across the face; it's so embarrassing. Would she hardly shed a tear if he died? Is that how it is now?

 

"You don't know who I am? Are you really gonna play that card?"

 

She shoves his hand away from her shoulder, taking a step back. "Don't touch me." Her finger has raised to point at him in that way that she often uses to ward people away. "Danny Pink is one of the greatest men I've ever came in contact with, and I've known him for much longer than five minutes. Leave."

 

His patience is wearing thin. Danny's name makes him want to vomit. "Jesus, stop being so fucking sad," he groans, grabbing her by the hand and leading her away from the grave. He has no idea where he's taking her. It doesn't matter. He just needs to take her away from this other man and make her his.

 

She's trying to pull away from him, but he's dangerously strong, and frankly she's been taken off guard. All of the taekwondo she's been taking leads her to this moment and she gets close enough to him to try to punch him straight in the neck. Doctor look-a-like or no, she won't be taken anywhere against her will, especially not when she's supposed to be at a funeral, saying goodbye. She's always promised herself to say goodbye.

  
He's surprised by how good she is at putting up a fight. She's obviously no match for him though. He covers her mouth with his hand as he drags her into the back of the near by old warehouse. He remembers now; he's used this space before. The memories come and go. Fiction blurs with reality. Was it a dream, a movie or a real event? The thought buries itself in the back of his mind as he concentrates on Jean. "Just let me talk to you alright? I just want to talk!" he insists.


	2. Chapter 2

Once they arrive at the warehouse, she's close to having a panic attack. Something bad is about to happen to her, but she's going to have to pretend, she supposes. Whoever he thinks she is, she'll be. She goes quiet and still and she fixes her gaze on him, nodding at his comment of just wanting to talk. This person she's supposed to be is clearly important to him, and so she allows herself to relax.

 

There's a change in her manner. It unsettles him. He's not even sure the door's locked. The building's hardly secure but he can't bring himself to care. His attention has to be 100% focused on her now. She's the woman he could never bring himself to hurt. The one that got away, with no idea what she was missing out on. "I thought you liked me," he whispers, a hint of hurt bleeding through as he slips the knife out of his pocket and holds it against her neck.

 

"I do like you," she whispers, fear starting to seep into her words. "I more than like you." Her gaze locks with his, and she's trying her hardest not to breathe too fast or too slow either. "Let's talk okay? I'm sorry about Danny, I just had to pretend for everyone. I had to act sad for them, but I don't have to act sad for you, right? I'm glad he's gone. He was boring anyway."

 

There's silence for a few moments as he takes in her words. He studies her face and suddenly his smiling. The fear of rejection is so familiar. That's the Jean he remembers; the one who wishes to be noticed and adored. He brings the knife up to move across her right cheek. "Why did you have to pretend?" he asks. She's the only one he thought he could read like a book.

 

"Because if I hadn't pretended they would have cast me out. I had to fit in with everyone and play the part of being the sad girlfriend." Throwing Danny away like this is difficult for her, but at the same time she's trying to save herself. "You understand now, don't you? That I had to. But now you've come to save me from pretending, thank you." Braveheart, Clara. This man demands attention and he thinks she adores him, she can do this - especially if she convinces herself to see him as the face she lost so long ago.

 

"He did seem dull as Hell..." Patrick reasons, mentally patting himself on the back for killing him. He doesn't want to ask a lot of questions because he really doesn't care how her few weeks with Danny were. He doesn't care who he was and what his family thinks of Jean. The only thing that matters is that Jean is obsessed again. His hand holds onto hers and it feels like he's come home. Things are right again. Everything is fine. "I can save you" he promises, squeezing the hand and hesitantly moving the knife away from her face. "You won't have to see those idiots again."

 

“Where are we going to go?" She asks him, gaze staying on his. The knife means nothing, he means everything. At least that's how she wants him to see it. "Because I think we ought to go soon so that they don't get worried and come after us. Whenever we get where we're going I can call and tell them that I'm alright - that I never loved Danny. How about that?"

 

"You think they'll look for you in here? I've never had that problem before," he shrugs, more laid back and mostly trusting. She's not a smart girl, he doesn't believe that she could fool him easily. "But surely you never want to face them again?"

 

"No, I don't want to. I just want to call, no matter how stupid they are they deserve that don't they?" She's starting to get scared now, of being trapped here, but she can get out - or at least she hopes she can.

 

He tuts at her, "Frankly...they hurt you, Jean. They don't deserve anything."

 

"Okay." So her name is Jean, then. She tries to become comfortable with that. "You're right." She laughs softly. "Stupid Jean, again, like always." Her gaze leaves his.

 

Patrick smiles warmly at her, nodding thankfully that she's taken the bait. He can't believe how sorry he feels for her at that moment. It's maddening. "Your job was to take care of me....or at least try to. Now let me return the favour." he tells her softly, right before he throws the first punch at her face. It's for her own good.

 

The punch knocks her off her feet and she falls to the ground, holding her cheek. Tears start to fall and she doesn't dare to look at him. "Thank you." She whispers, it's something that she thinks this Jean girl would say, but underneath she’s saying ‘fuck you.’

 

He sits down on the floor to face her, pitying her crying. "Your make up's ruined and now you've been punched in the face. You look terrible." he states, his voice still not unkind. "I don't really care for your face, your body, your so called personality....but i'm still here. Danny's dead. His friends and family are dead to you. I'm the one you can rely on."

 

If anything, she's realising how much she hates this man. But she's playing a part and so she nods. "I understand,” she murmurs. "Thank you for taking care of me."

 

"I could carry on punching you till you're black and blue; to prove that I would never hurt you the way they have. People are so shallow. I don't care how you look," he rambles, fumbling over his words. He feels as if he's in a romantic comedy and he has to prove himself to her.

 

His hands move to her waist, mouth hovering over her ear as he hisses, "Jean - I would still like you if you were nothing but a spinal cord."

 

It's difficult for her not to cry out - but she knows there's no one around to save her. She has to save herself like always. So she presses into his touch, lets her breathing turn deep like she's attracted to him. One hand moves to gently move over his back. "Thank you. You're always so intelligent. Thank you for not being like everyone else."

 

He hums in agreement, his mind occupied as he looks her up and down. He gently pushes her onto her back, getting the knife back out of his pocket to nip at her dress. It's not hard to ruin the garment and leave it hanging off of her flesh. Jean in her underwear is a pleasing sight, although he's not sure if he's fully satisfied with it. "What bra size are you?"

 

"A thirty-two D." She terrified now, even with Danny she's been very careful, never really letting him see her. Her terror has to be hidden, but she wants to run. She looks up at him and then swallows. "I don't think I'm ready for this,” she breathes. "I'm not good enough for you."

 

The doubt she's showing is bitter sweet. She was breathing heavily and moving against him a moment ago. "Oh, well you're not a virgin are you?" he retorts. "Danny didn't get any?"

 

"I only ever wanted you." And it hurts because it'd be true if he were who she wanted him to be. "I went to Danny for comfort and he never gave me any, so I never..." She takes a deep breath to calm herself. "I never had sex with him, because I hoped one day we would be okay again. I wanted to be able to take care of you again. So yes, I'm still a virgin." She hopes that he sees the innocence and attempts to protect it rather than crush it. She supposes it can go either way.

 

The words seem to touch him and he's weary of where to put his hands. Instead of stripping her further, he leans in and kisses her gently on the cheek. "Good girl, we'll take it as slow as you need."

 

"Will it hurt?" It's getting more and more difficult not knowing his name, and she's trying to figure out how to make him say it. She looks up at him with an innocent and scared gaze.

 

"Only if you let it," he whispers before moving his mouth to her lips. His kisses are slow and gentle.

 

She forces herself to kiss back, but her arms stay limp by her sides. What will happen if she tries to run now? She isn't sure. But she thinks she's worn out the pity card.

 

He moves away quickly, stares at her blankly. "One question. What do you want, out of life?"

 

“What do I want out of life?" She repeats, watching him, judging what she should say carefully.

 

"Fine, two. What's your favourite musical? If it's the one I think it is, we went to see it once..." he smiles falsely at the memory.

 

She doesn't know much about musicals, hasn't heard of any for a while, so she says silent, and then she begins to feign sickness, actual proper sickness. It starts with a cough, and she forces herself to just keep coughing, face turning away from his until she's dry heaving. If he wants to protect her he will, but she's acting as if she's in no state to talk, and after getting herself to start coughing, it's rather difficult to stop.

 

By the third or fourth cough, he has a blanket around her arms. He's stored a few things under the floorboards from last time when he was here. Either that, or there's an angel looking down on him approvingly; lighting the way for him and Jean. He's not sure which is true. He's not sure he slept last night. Part of him thinks he might have come to the warehouse to leave the supplies. It's mostly confirmed when he finds the sleeping pills for her and holds her to thrust them into her mouth. "We can reminisce in the morning, when you feel better."

 

She doesn't mean to swallow the pills, but she does by accident, and she's soon settling into the arms of this stranger because she can't do anything else. As her own will to stay awake is slowly taken over by the pills, she watches him carefully, judging everything about him, maybe she'll get out of here yet.

  
He spends some time securing the warehouse while she sleeps. She's not completing the same as before, he's discovered. Something’s off and he can't seem to trust her like he use to. He hurt her and it didn't feel wrong. When he'd tried to murder her once before, everything in his head had screamed no. No one else would miss her; but he would. That's what had stopped him before. Now, she feels like a stranger. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support. Please leave feedback here or send a message on tumblr if you like the story <3.


	3. Chapter 3

He leaves her alone for a short time, locking her inside while he goes out to get them food. He’s back within the hour and curls up beside her.

 

When she wakes up she almost forgets that she's been kidnapped, but when she realises it, she's very careful to be quiet. She stares at the man beside her, examining him. Seeing him asleep almost gives him a presence of innocence. She swallows before she slowly rolls over away from him, staring at the ceiling of the warehouse. All she has to do is get out, and surely there's got to be a way.

 

When he wakes up, he seems genuinely happy, "Jean....you're still here. I'm glad." Of course she's still there. She wouldn't even think to check inside his trousers for the key. Rubbing his eyes, he points to the corner of the room. "I got you some clothes and food."

 

"I could have left," she murmurs. "I know that, but I wasn't going to leave because you're here. Why would I want to leave you?" she looks over at him. "Unless you're keeping me here to kill me with your knife, which I really don't think would be all that nice of you. I mean, seeing as how we're supposed to be caring for each other and you would give up on me that easily." She's then standing and going over to the corner where the clothing and food is, keeping the blanket from before wrapped around her.

 

“The knife? Oh it's just for later on, if we start really enjoying ourselves. It proves we trust each other, if you let me use it." he explains leisurely. He looks away to allow her privacy to dress, hoping that might form some more trust between them.

 

She's done pretending to be Jean, she decides as she gets dressed. She'll go by the name and never correct him, but she needs to act like herself to get out of the situation. No one gets out alive better than Clara Oswald, and this Jean girl is surely someone who couldn’t last a day being kidnapped. She gathers her food and then goes to sit back where she'd fallen asleep to begin to eat slowly. He’s definitely a rich man, so it brings her next question to her lips whenever she’s about a fourth of the way through her meal.

 

"Why did you get us a warehouse instead of a hotel room?"

 

"So that you'd be safe, none of Danny's friends could find you."

 

"Did you kill Danny?"

 

It catches him off guard after being so used to her innocent questions. He may still be tired but he swears that she doesn't sound like Jean at all. Then he remembers the questions he'd asked the day before. "Answer this first, what's your favourite musical?"

 

“Answer me first, then I'll tell you,” her fire slowly develops in the way she spits out the words. “Did you kill Danny?"

 

"Did you?" he growls, grasping the knife and walking over to her with it.

 

"Obviously I didn't, I'm not the one with the knife." She's trying to be careful, but she doesn't think he'll kill her - strong men always try to use their weapons to put on a show - though she may very well be wrong about that.

 

"I didn't need one," he blurts out.

 

“You pushed him in front of the car," she resolves.

 

"Why does it matter? You didn't love him."

 

"Because you murdered him."

 

"You murdered Jean."

 

"I don't even know who Jean is! My name is Clara Oswald, I haven't ever met you before, and I don't even know your name. Maybe you murdered Jean!" Exasperation leads her to finally just admit she has no bloody clue who Jean is, or why he’s captured her.

 

He slaps her hard across the face, shocked by the revelation that all this has been for nothing. He's killed a random guy for nothing. The satisfaction is fading and urge for release is overwhelming. He wants to know Clara Oswald. He wants to punish her for her lies and how he was on his way to baring his soul for her.

 

"I would never hurt Jean, you stupid bitch!" he yells, lips almost touching her nose, before pushing her back up against the wall.

 

Everything hurts, her back, her heart, her ears, her stomach. She stares at him dead in the eyes, though, watching him carefully. "If you wouldn't ever hurt her, then where is she?" she whispers. "Don't be mad at me for not being her. If you really liked her so much - if you really would never hurt her - then why did you even think for a single second that I was her? We’re probably nothing alike."

 

He has no idea where she is, truly. He's worried now more than ever that something's happened to her. Maybe someone like him decided to take her home. The difference being that someone probably didn’t want to marry her. "Because I need her."

 

"Then go find her. She probably needs you too,” she murmurs, staying pressed up against the wall carefully. "What if she's out there looking for you right now and you've just left her behind?"

 

“I don't know where she is. She might as well be dead." he spits, staring right at her. "But you look just like her, Clara."

 

“And you look just like someone I knew once, but he's dead too," she spits back at him. "Who are you?"

 

“My name," he says as he grabs her by the waist and throws her down onto the floor. "Is whatever your dead friends' was." Then his mouth is on her and his mind is only on Jean.

 

She sees where this is going, and she should stop it, but she allows it just because of what he says. Her gaze goes upward, as she forces herself to settle on the floor. Maybe she can pretend - for the sake of selfishness - that this is the Doctor and that things are the way they were before Danny. She doesn't let out a protest, but instead stays still.

 

"Clara," he practices the feel of her name on his tongue in the form of a moan. His hand slips down the dress he'd gotten her and pushes down her knickers. "This friend of yours, what would you have said to him, if he told you he wanted to fuck you?" he grins.

 

"I would have told him yes,” she admits. "In a way, my friend is the equivalent to what Jean is to you." She’s been gazing at his fingers as he’s moved her knickers away, now the gaze meets his directly. "But I wasn't lying when I said I was a virgin, all of that was true."

 

He'd been hoping for a distraction; to help her, even. Now she was turning it right back around to him. The guilt factor. It doesn't really work on him. "Maybe we deserve each other."

 

"Maybe we do." She reaches to cup his cheek. "But I'd like to know your real name before we do anything. Because my friend - he's named the Doctor, and I don't think it suits you all that well."

 

He gives her a sly smile, slipping a finger inside her. He's pleasantly surprised. "My name's Patrick Bateman. Let me help you get lost in the darkness." he whispers before beginning to kiss her neck.

 

She can't help but let out a soft sound, and she isn't sure if it's approval or protest. "Patrick Bateman." She murmurs his name as he kisses her neck, trying her hardest not to give that much of a reaction.

 

"But you can call me whatever you want," he adds with a roll of his eyes. A second, then third finger joins the first one inside of her. "What do you think about when you masturbate Clara?"

 

At this point it's taking everything in her not to moan or rock against his fingers. "I think about you." And in a way she's getting used to pretending that he's not Patrick Bateman, but instead the Doctor.

 

“Then think about me," he orders, fingers now thrusting in and out of her as his thumb rubs slowly at her clit. "Kissing you, touching your tits, your cunt, being inside you and fucking you so hard you forget about everyone else," he whispers harshly.

 

And so she does, she forces herself to, because it's the only way that she can get through this. She starts to moan softly at some point, and she allows her body to give in to rocking against his fingers.

 

Patrick doesn't take his eyes off of her as he gently moves Clara's hand over to her pussy to replace his own. He tugs his cock out of his trousers and thinks of some encouraging words as he starts to stroke himself. "Come on Clara, my Clara. Make yourself come for me."

 

It's almost degrading to touch herself like this in front of someone else, but she starts to dip her own fingers into herself, her other hand moving to toy at one of her breasts. She's moaning, especially when he calls her his Clara - just like the Doctor always had. It's something that makes her continue on and she's close as it is to coming, but she tries to last longer.

 

He’s watching her closely, his fist pumping his cock as he watches her pleasure herself. He's not surprised that things have started to go his way. Women are always so easy to control.

 

She keeps moving her fingers into herself and against herself until she comes and when she does she slowly pulls her fingers away, gaze slowly meeting his - she's only willing to do one thing right now and so she crawls over to him. "It would be more than an honour to get to suck your cock, Patrick." She murmurs, gaze turning very innocent and voice soft. "I'd be willing for you."

 

He isn't sure why she's playing this game with him, but she is. It's not like he's ever gonna turn down the opportunity to have his cock sucked. He's just seen her come and the ball's still in his court. They always give in eventually.

 

He takes hold of her hands, threading her fingers through his and then raising them to his mouth. He licks the come off of them but wishes there was blood on them as well. Play the game, maybe they'd get there soon.

 

Pulling her by the hair, he moves her head towards his dick. "Oh you're learning quickly, sweetheart,"

 

In a perfect world she'd never have to do this - things would end before they even started. But her lips part, and she slowly slides her mouth down over his tip. At first she just sucks on the head of his cock, making soft, moaning sounds. She's then going to take him into her mouth further, shoving him down her throat as best as she can, even when she gags she keeps going.

 

Learning. Learning what? That this is a game? That he's the only one who can win? Because she doesn't see it that way at all.

 

It's never normally enough; a simple blow job with a little discomfort on her part. She seems to be enjoying herself far more than she's letting on though. It’s as if she’s happily letting herself choke on his cock. He wasn't going to let her move until he was satisfied that she was a slave to him. She had to be in too deep.

 

He keeps his hand on the back of her head and stops her from moving. His fingers play with her hair, wiping the come off of his fingers and into the brown locks.

 

It's much harder to keep bobbing her head over him than she'd like it to be, but she keeps going. He's got to be happy for her new plan to work. He's got to be fooled and hell, she did it once before so she can do it again. Her moans become louder as she takes him down her throat, hands grip onto his thighs. Her teeth graze the skin of his cock as much as she can make them and while she's definitely not happy she's pretending, lying.

 

She is an incredible liar, after all.

 

He's on the verge of coming when he realises there's really no reason to keep her alive. She knows his name, his crime, and the reasoning behind it. She might be a good cock sucker but it’s hardly worth the trouble of keeping her around. She'd caved in like all the others and hadn't even spilled any blood. Now that he knew she wasn't Jean, there was no reason why he couldn't just take her virginity at this very moment. She'd be his and his alone until her last breath. Yet as he looks down at the mouth around his cock, all he sees is a face that belonged to the ghost of Jean. It's a constant struggle, but the idea of suffocating her with his cock eventually makes him come inside her mouth.

 

When he comes it isn't pleasant, but she sucks down the white matter in her mouth and sucks on his tip to make it all go away. She's then pulling back and looking up at him. "I'm not doing this again,” she tells him, wiping the spillage from her lips. "I only did it this once for your Jean. So you can remember how much you love her."

 

It's adorable how she thinks that she has a choice. He's been way too kind to her. "That's kind of you. But you'll do whatever I tell you - if you want to keep your spleen. I thought we were friends?" he chuckles.

 

"We're not friends, and I won't do whatever you tell me to. So if you want to rape me or kill me or whatever else go ahead - but I won't give up trying to get away the whole time. I don't like playing games or becoming people's pets. Just know that after I die, you'll be next because the most powerful being in the entire universe will have his target set on you."

 

This isn't the kind of challenge he had in mind. She's really starting to irritate him. "Oh am I gonna be murdered by Danny's ghost?" he groans in annoyance. She hasn't experienced the thrill of striking that final blow. She's only had a taste of death. She has no idea how to really play the game. He needs to show her. "So nothing scares you, is that it?”

 

"Lots of things scare me. You scare me, getting lost scares me, not ever seeing my family and friends again scares me. But just because I'm scared doesn't mean anything about how I act or what I'll do. If anything I'm stronger when I'm scared. And no - Danny is gone. The man I'm talking about is much different."

 

"Then I look forward to meeting your knight in shining armour." Patrick hisses with a roll of his eyes. He wonders how close she's been to a corpse. He really is getting bored of her but at the same time, he needs to see her crack. Fetching handcuffs from under the floorboards, he pins her down to handcuff her to an old radiator. "It sounds like you could do with a friend."

 

Whenever she gets handcuffed, she starts to struggle - and she has no idea how to get her Doctor to come save her. "Just let me go, or kill me already. I'm getting bored." And she only says this because she can tell that he's bored, so if she acts better than him she thinks she can maybe get a reaction.

 

"Don't worry sweetheart, I'm going to get you someone else to play with. I need to get some entertainment while you die" She's frustrating him because she's right, but no one got a quick death when they were with him.

 

"What's your favourite body part?"

 

"I don't have one,” she says softly. Though she does - if she had to pick one body part to love it would be her hands - anyone’s hands really.

 

He watches her, considering her answer. "Most girls say their hands, they can't be without their nail varnish. Unfortunately that means I have to unburden them of their toes as well."

 

"That's not why," she tells him. "That's not why they say their hands - it's got nothing to do with something as simple as nail varnish."

 

"Then why don't you show me?" he asks casually as he moves his hand over hers. It's easy to break a couple of fingers, taking out his frustration.

 

She cries out at that, she shouldn't have said anything. She presses away from him, trying not to give in to the panic and anxiety that follows the pain and realising that her fingers are actually broken - shattered. "Because it isn't something you show. Hands are beautiful because they create. Even your hands are beautiful ... But they destroy." Tears leak from her eyes.

 

"I'm actually a really good artist, very fond of my creations - thank you very much," Patrick purrs into her ear. she hasn’t seen anything yet. One of his hands clinches around her broken fingers while the other takes his phone out of his pocket. what a shame that Clara had left hers along with the thoughts of her dead boyfriend. he scrolls through the pictures but doesn't take his eyes off of his latest victim. "She's beautiful. Isn't she? Can't remember what happened to her head though." he flicks to the next image. "Oh, there you go, there it is - what was left of it."

 

She doesn't want this - she doesn't want to see this or hear this, but there's that feeling where she can't say no. With a soft gaze she looks at the photo, but she doesn't scream or cry or tell him that she's afraid. She's seen worse after all. Like soldiers spread out in little pieces across the room, like Danny's distorted body. She's seen death before, so her gaze moves to his again. "Am I supposed to be impressed or afraid?" she murmurs.

 

"Maybe a bit of both. I just thought I'd be kind enough to let you know what you're in for," he shrugs before taking the phone away and preparing to leave her alone.

 

"Thank you for being so caring, Patrick. I really appreciate it." Then she’s curling up, best as she can, knees coming to her chest, head lowering against them. He looks like he's going to leave and she's okay with that. She'd rather be alone anyway. It’s a few moments later that he actually does leave, though she really isn’t paying attention all that much. She hears him get up and walk toward the door, and she shrinks further into her ball, starting to examine her broken fingers, crying when she realises she can’t fix them at all. The warehouse door slams shut, her crying becomes more frantic to the point where she can hardly even breathe.

 

Eventually she falls asleep, her crying exhausting her to that point. Her emotions leave her feeling vulnerable, afraid, and alone; she really isn’t sure how much longer she needs to keep fighting to survive. He’s already shown her exactly what he’s going to do to her. Maybe it’s too late.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support. Please leave feedback here or send a message on tumblr if you like the story <3.


	4. Chapter 4

Within the next hour, Patrick returns to the warehouse with a girl. When he picked her up, she’d been drinking far too much even though it was only early afternoon. It didn’t take much for her to agree to go back to his place, and he was disappointed that she hadn't resisted. He thinks that he might not even have to handcuff her; she’s probably high on something anyway.

 

"Daddy's home!" he exclaims as he drags her into the room to Clara's side. "This is … Amy, I think."

 

Clara’s just woken up from a nap when she hears him return. She looks over at him with a tired gaze to find that he's brought a woman and suddenly she’s feeling very, very awake. Is he going to kill this woman here? In front of her? There’s a feeling that gathers in her gut as she realises how much she wants to save this girl … she wants to rip her hand out of the handcuffs and punch him and gather the girl and run. But she can't. Submissively, she looks over at the girl, Amy, and she has an apologetic look in her eye.

 

"Hello," she says, as calmly and quietly as possible. "I'm Clara."

 

"Oh you're going to get on wonderfully, I just know it." Patrick replies when Amy simply nods and looks very confused. She'd been so talkative ten minutes ago; telling him about how her boyfriend had dumped her and how her family hated the government. "Clara lost someone recently too, maybe you can bond over men letting you down."

 

It’s as if she’s expected to speak to this woman and get to know her before her death, but Clara remains silent. She refuses to talk about Danny to anyone, and she refuses to play Patrick’s games. Her gaze slowly pulls from Amy to Patrick. She stares at him with a gaze of anger, a bit of hate, but she's also pleading for him to not do this, for him to allow the girl to go. It isn’t as if she’s done anything to deserve death.

 

"Oh shit, I forgot to get some plasters for your fingers,” he suddenly realises this fact, and it becomes more important than the matter at hand for a single moment. “Maybe next time. Keep your chin up, Clara. Amy's here all because of you. I just knew you'd want to spend some time together."

 

"I don't mind about the plasters," she hisses - honestly she's forgotten about her fingers which just feel dead to her. "But I don't want to spend time with her, you should leave her go."

 

"Don't be a meanie." Patrick pouts at her before turning to Amy and planting a chaste kiss on her lips. To his amusement, she seems to respond; she's so out of out that she's only registering the familiar feeling of a mouth on hers. He then bites down hard on her tongue and she cries out in protest. He's staring at Clara while he kisses Amy, tasting the blood in her mouth.

 

"Stop," she says, keeping her gaze connected with his the entire time. It makes her stomach churn knowing that this woman is being used for his entertainment. "Just let her go, Patrick." She's trying not to say please - not to beg and plead with him, but she doesn't think her normal assertive nature will work on him like it would with someone like the Doctor.

 

"I love it when they beg. Maybe one day, you will too," he ponders, well aware of the dilemma she's facing. There’s a brief pause, and then few seconds later his knife is out and he's cutting through Amy's dress so that her tits fall out of it. He runs the blade across her chest he bites down on her lip, beginning to feast of her flesh.

 

Clara is helpless, forced to watch the torture of a woman she doesn’t even know. Soon her gaze moves away and she looks in the other direction, not being able to handle looking at the way his teeth move across Amy’s lip. "I'm sorry, Amy,” she says whenever she realises that no one is here to keep the girl comforted. She then crushes her body against the radiator, digging her forehead against the metal.

 

Amy's crying now, it’s pretty obvious that she's beginning to sober up. Patrick hopes she doesn't choke on the blood in her mouth too soon. She's missing half of her bottom lip now. There are gashes across the top of her breasts. He doesn't want to move too quickly because he knows that Clara isn't paying enough attention. "I hope you're not too uncomfortable Amy."

 

"Fuck you," comes the bitter reply, amongst more cries.

 

In her own terror, Clara is beginning to shiver. She wants to save the girl so much, and she can hear each cut and cry and distressed sound. She soon makes the mistake of looking over and when she sees the mess of the woman's lips, she almost begs Patrick to let her go. Though begging will make her seem weak and not worthy. As much as she hates jeapordising this woman’s life, she knows how to make herself seem important and on the same level as him.

 

"Do you wanna save this girl, Clara?" Patrick muses, pulling Amy down to her knees next to the brunette. He grabs hold of Clara's face and forces her to face him.

 

"Yes," she says, eyes dragging to his."But I know you won't let me." She's close to spitting in his face, but for now she's just trying to pull her face away from his hold.

 

"It's hard to tell what you really want. You didn't seem to mind sucking my cock earlier, hours after your boyfriend was sunk in the ground. Do you really want to save her, or are you hoping that she'll be enough and I'll be too bored for you; you'll be able save yourself?"

 

"No!" she exclaims, starting to strain against the handcuffs and the radiator. "I want to save her, more than anything, but I know better than anyone that sometimes you can't save everyone. Let her go, just let her go."

 

"That's very touching, I must admit." Patrick observes as he looks between them. The opportunity is too good to pass up. He hovers his knife over Amy's throat. "If you really care, I want you to prove it. Kiss her."

 

"What?" Pure disgust fills her at the idea of doing that. However, there's that knife that seems dangerously close to piercing through Amy’s neck. The need to save is slowly outweighing the need to care about herself. Not that she thinks kissing will do anything - Amy's probably already dead, but there’s still the slim chance.

 

"Kiss her or I will slice her throat open. Am I not convincing enough?" he threatens. To make his point, he swiftly moves his knife down on the hand of Amy’s that he’s holding and cuts off little finger.

 

As the finger falls, Clara’s heart rate goes up; that little movement brings her to her knees, and she presses forward to kiss Amy. It’s only a small peck on the lips, though, she should have made it more believable. She's close to crying again, and she feels uncomfortable. "There now let her go!"

 

Amy's in hysterics, staring at Clara helplessly as she shakes her hand around. He stops her, going for the next finger. He's laughing as the second finger falls to the floor. "Come on Clara, you're letting her down."

 

"Stop it!" she says, in her own world of hysterics, looking over at him with terror in her eyes. "If you're going to kill her just do it! Because I know and you know that you're not going to let me save her no matter what I do or say." Her breathing has reached the point where she's now gasping for air so that she doesn't start to cry.

 

"I'm not gonna kill her. You've got that wrong. I'm betting she's either gonna kill herself, or you'll deliver the final blow. We're a long way off that right now though," he rambles, turning his attention back to Amy. He pulls up her dress and thrusts three fingers inside her without any sort of warning. "Let me know when you're ready for that kiss."

 

_The final blow._

The plan wasn't ever for him to kill Amy in front of her, but was instead for her to kill the woman. She swallows, panic sets in, and she watches him put his fingers in the girl, violating her; destroying her even before her death. What kind of monster is he? She wonders. But he's going to win this battle, because maybe she really can save Amy.

 

"Fine," comes her quick resolve.

 

Patrick rips the rest of Amy’s dress off, looking her body up and down. She'd felt like a virgin. Two of them. Lucky. Now it was Clara's turn. He backs away from the girl and watches eagerly for what's been promised. "The more you touch her, the more alive you'll feel."

 

"That's a lie," she murmurs, still fighting him whenever she can, but she's then moving to start kissing the girl in a fakely passionate way. She keeps kissing her even when it feels like the girl wants to pull away - even when her own mouth starts to fill with a bit of blood from the missing bit of lip.

 

Patrick lets out a groan. Although it's all fake, it still has the desired effect. He palms his cock through his trousers, thinking of the next order to give her. Amy's gone quiet, apparently giving in to her fate.

 

Clara’s lining kisses down the girl's jaw and her neck and even across her collarbone. She's doing whatever she can in hopes that he tells her to stop soon.

 

"Put your hands on her throat and feel her pulse,” is his next order. “You'll understand how good it feels to have control of life and death. You're going to thrive off it."

 

She moves to set her hands on the girl's throat, not out of free will but because he could cut off another one of her fingers if he wanted. She doesn't squeeze or search for the pulse - she's not going to kill her. In fact, she refuses to. She starts to kiss up to the girl's ear and then whispers to her. "I'm going to try to save you." The odds are definitely not in her favour, but she’s got to lie and give her hope; it’s whenever that hope gets lost that she won’t be able to get Amy to safety.

 

Patrick wonders what Clara's whispering to the other woman. It's sadly sweet that they might be trying to work together. He pushes Amy back onto the floor and commands to Clara, "Now eat her cunt." Her face lowers to the girl’s cunt almost immediately - though she’s full of disgust at the notion, she does wonder if he’s mildly impressed for a moment.

 

"Good girl," he coos, his hand moving to the back of Clara's head to encourage her. He's not sure if she's the type to experiment or not. Maybe she's drunkenly kissed a girl before. On closer inspection, she definitely seems to know how to tease a girl's pussy. Amy makes a noise that can be loosely interpreted as a moan and it makes his cock harden.

 

She keeps kissing the soft tissue of the girl's cunt. It’s difficult for her to keep going, but she lets her tongue jut out and stimulate the other girl's little nub of a clit. She's then starting to suck on the flabs of pink and she's still attempting not to cry.

 

It takes a moment to take in what she's saying, but eventually Patrick realises that Amy's been talking. He sits beside her, listening to her sigh out as Clara eats her out. "If you're going....to kill me..." she begins and he's already rolling his eyes. "Do it soon, do it as I come" she pants.

 

For the first time, he appreciates her for who she is. She might not be a killer, but he's known plenty of people like her. She's a thrill seeker. She may be crying and begging for it to stop but part of her wants to tip over the edge. All humans have a limit and sometimes they bare the pain for the sake of a glimpse of pleasure. This is a good lesson for Clara. Maybe her mission to set her free has all been for nothing.  

 

He looks down at Clara and hopes that she heard every word of that plea. She's not thinking of her family or friends, her memory, or meaningful last words. She just wants to feel pleasure before she's taken from this word. "Clara, you're about to give this girl the best climax of her life."

 

It sounds stupid, what the girl is saying. Is this really how it is when someone is dying? Amy just wants pleasure and Clara is disgusted with her decision. But she keeps going for her sake. Patrick pinches her nipples, watches her face and wonders how she'd like to die. She's moaning, but he has a feeling that Clara's not trying as hard now that she knows that it's what the woman wants.

 

Honestly, she wants to stop. She wants to get the woman out safely, alive, but Amy seems to have given up hope. How does someone give up so quickly? Clara would like to know, because she isn't sure if it makes them weak or very strong. All she knows is that she'll use this as an example and a way to keep going. She's definitely slowing down on how she sucks at the woman, and how she lets her tongue dip into her.

 

Clara's just not trying hard enough and it occurs to Patrick that Amy's far too attractive to die a virgin. He feels a sinister sense of duty. After all, she does really want to come. He pulls his cock out and pushes Clara away from Amy's body. There's no warning before he grabs her by the waist and thrusts himself inside her. She's screaming now, from pain or pleasure he isn't sure. But she's so damn tight and he wonders why her ex boyfriend didn't even give her a pity shag before he left her.

 

"No, not like this. I never wanted it like this." Amy screams and Patrick glares at her because she never said who she wanted to give her the orgasm. He didn't know how she could die happily without feeling a cock inside her, especially his. "Clara's much more talented at sucking cock rather than pussy, so it seems," he tells her in a voice that suggests he might be sorry.

 

Whenever she gets pushed away she's confused - but only for a few brief moments because soon she's stuck watching Amy get raped before her death. She goes to huddle back up against the radiator, gaze leaving the scene. She's trying to detach herself as well as the screams and the pleas and the comments that degrade who she is. Not that she cares, she really doesn't care anymore. Her wrist hurts, her fingers are broken, her mouth is full of the taste of cunt juice and blood, and she's miserable - she's freezing too, and she's starting to realise how properly thirsty she is for actual water. Amy dying is the last thing on her mind, because the whole time she knew it would happen.

 

Patrick's thrusts are fast and deep, relishing in the feeling of being Amy's first as well as her last. He has the same thing planned for Clara and he looks over at her to see her staring into space. She doesn't seem to care about this poor young woman anymore. She's out for number one. His mouth moves to Amy's breasts and then he's biting at the flesh of her nipples, ripping into them with his teeth. She's begging to die by now. She doesn't want her body messed with, can't bear the thought of losing another finger.

 

A few more moments later, Clara is breaking - not all the way, but to the point where she can’t help but scream at him, "Just kill her already, Patrick!" She can't do it, and she knows she can't; she doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to kill anyone "You're the only one here who's going to get any pleasure out of it and all three of us know she's done for - just kill her and let it be done."

 

“How can you say that? I'm not gonna kill this poor woman." he mocks, still nibbling at the flesh of her breasts.

 

"Then what are you going to do? Eat her alive?"

 

"Well I am feeling a bit peckish - as you Brits say."

 

"You're disgusting," she hisses, going to turn her gaze away again.

 

"Do you think I should cut her tongue out Clara? Her screams are doing my head in."

 

"Why not? She’s already dead."

 

Amy screeches at that and the last word she gets out is, "Clara!" before Patrick has the knife in his hand and holds her mouth open, to cut her tongue out. It's covered in blood of course and he almost drops it once it's out of her mouth. He places it in Clara's hand and then resumes fucking Amy.

 

Clara throws the tongue that's been put in her hand across the room, and she tries to get the feeling of it off of her hand, closing her eyes tightly and going to try to imagine herself somewhere else. Listening to everything is starting to be even worse that seeing it, though. The gurgling sound of blood. The sound of his cock ramming into Amy. She'd rather be listening to heavy metal than this.

 

Now that he's got his knife back out, he can't resist decorating Amy’s body in more gashes. He concentrates now on the lower half of her body, moving towards her cunt. He sees the horrified look in Amy's eyes as she sees the tongue fly across the room.

 

"Do you still wanna kiss her?" he chuckles, grabbing Clara by the head and forcing her mouth against Amy's. She's not allowed to block this out.

 

There's a sound of protest at that - no she doesn't want to kiss her. In her head she's pleading, but on the outside she's just limp, her lips not jutted out or anything. She wonders what happens when she gives up.

 

Dissatisfied with the reaction, he slips his cock out of Amy and shoves it into Clara's mouth. It's covered in blood. He pulls on her hair and forces her to suck on it. "Doesn't she taste wonderful." His free hand is still running the blade across Amy, sinking in deeper now so that fresh bloods spills out.

 

It isn't like she has much of a choice other than to suck on the cock - she lets the blood slip down her throat even though it tastes awful. Her gaze goes to search for his, and she clearly looks disinterested at this point. But she's sucking on his cock, letting her tongue circle around it. Better than having to kiss Amy in the midst of her death, she supposes.

 

Amy's rather useless at this point. He's bored of her tits and her face. All that's really left is her cunt. Clara's doing a piss poor job of sucking him off and he decides that it's time to make for her to make a choice. He disappears into another room in the warehouse and returns with an electric saw. He holds it across his body and then goes to pass her the knife. "I can cut her up piece by piece, or you can give her a quick, merciful jab in the heart. Which is it gonna be?"

 

When he leaves she practically collapses onto the ground, and she looks at Amy with the most apologetic look she can muster. But then she sees him returning and she sits up. The knife that is suddenly in her hands scares her and she looks up at him. "I don't want to be a murderer," she almost throws the knife across the room, but can’t find the strength.

 

"Nor did I. But I didn't have someone to help me survive it." he mutters and for once, he's telling the absolute truth. He turns the saw on and quickly cuts off the rest of the fingers on Amy’s right hand. He pauses, turns it off to watch Clara.

 

There's no way that she can do it, though she'd rather end Amy's life quickly for her. Her bottom lip is quivering every single time she breathes because of how much she's considering plunging the knife into the woman to kill her. Though wouldn't she practically be a saint if she did that? Her hand holds onto the knife a bit tighter and she looks at Amy. "If I killed you would you see me as a murderer?" She's not sure why she's asking the girl who doesn't even have a whole hand of fingers anymore.

 

He lets there be silence for a minute or so, watching Clara wait for the girl with no tongue to answer. "The real question is, do you want to stop her pain, or keep her eyes open as I cut out her breasts and cut off her cute little toes?"

 

"Ask her what she wants! Ask her yes or no questions and ... and whatever she wants I'll do it."

 

Patrick leans over the scared woman. "Blink once for yes and twice for no." he tells her, but he can't help but laugh at the situation. He doesn't usually care what they have to say by this point. "Do you want Clara to stab you?" She stares blankly for a moment before she blinks. To make sure Clara's satisfied, he gets her to confirm. "Move your left foot for yes, right foot for no. Would you consider her a murderer if she killed you right now?" he muses boredly. Whatever this woman says, Clara would still be a murderer in his eyes and the eyes of the law.

 

Amy moves her right foot.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your continued support. Please leave feedback here or send a message on tumblr if you like the story <3.


	5. Chapter 5

Maybe she should stick to her gut and say no, but the factor remains that no matter what happens Amy will die in this warehouse anyway. The decision is a hard one to make, because she knows that she’ll be throwing all of her morals away if she lets that knife sink into the woman’s skin. As the time ticks by she’s picturing everyone she loves knowing she’s a murderer. Even if she says it’s all she could do, she imagines they’ll say that she should have tried harder. Then she imagines being seen as a saint in the eyes of Amy. Instead of being kept alive and cut into tiny little pieces, she’ll die quick and peaceful, and Clara will be saving whatever dignity she has left by letting her body stay in tact.

 

There is no alternative. This is what she is forced to realise. Patrick always had the game in his hands - hell, it wasn’t ever a game. It was just a sick form of entertainment where he knew that she would give in. For once, she has to admit that someone is right and she is wrong. She’s going to be a murderer, a monster; but at least she’s going to be the better of two beasts.

 

She takes the knife in both of her hands tightly and she's watching the woman very carefully. Her hands are shaking and she’s dangerously close to dropping the knife, but she can’t seem to let go. Her gaze flicks between Patrick and Amy over and over, but she’s sure he’s going to force her to kill her soon. Her decision is taking too long. Soon her tears start and she can't make them stop. They roll down her cheeks and her chest heaves. She forces her arms up above her head, the knife poised and ready for descent. She can’t do this, but she can, she’s always been capable of murder. Everyone is. As she plunges the knife into the woman's chest, she lets out a loud sob. Hoping for forgiveness from someone, her last words to Amy are, "I'm sorry.”

 

Patrick watches her, his cock throbbing. He hasn't forgotten the promise he made Amy. Well she's probably not going to come, but she is going to die with his cock inside her. Clara's having an emotional moment, mumbling something before she finally pushes the blade into Amy's stomach. Patrick's so hard that it's aching and he's thrusting inside the dying woman, feeling the life drain out of her body as Clara becomes a murderer.

 

Clara winds up moving away as fast as she can, sobbing roughly. The knife is gone, there’s blood on her hands - the blood, it won't come off no matter where she puts them, but she tries to scrub them off on the floor. Each time she looks at them her vision fluxes. She's in her own state of paranoia and shock and she's trying desperately to forget it happened. One second then done. But she keeps looking at the body - at him fucking the body - and then she shuts down. To protect her, her body pushes the emotions away. She winds up just staring at them both blankly, her sobs gone, but tears running down her cheeks in post.

 

He holds onto Amy’s hips, holding her body right against him as he slams in and out of her violently until he's about to come. The knife has ended up on the floor and he picks it up to slash it across Clara's cheek. It's a mark she'll remember. She's a killer now. He lets out a loud groan as he comes inside the dead woman, "Fucking yes."

 

She lets out a yelp of pain, moving to hold onto her cheek, and she watches him come. She starts to cry again, the tears burn in her cut.

 

He slides out of Amy and crawls over to Clara, wrapping an arm around her. "It's gonna be ok, sweetheart. The first kill always hurts."

 

She can't help but settle against him, searching for comfort after she’s been emotionally compromised. Through her tears she looks up at him. "You're going to make me do it again, aren't you?"

 

"I didn't make you do anything." he insists and enjoys how vulnerable she looks. swiftly, he moves on. "What kind of books do you like? I'll bring some back next time, maybe."

 

"I like the classic novels. Pride and Prejudice is one of my favourites," she murmurs, lifting her broken fingers up and showing them to him. "Are you going to get me things for these too?"

 

"I can understand that. Mr Darcy's very mysterious. He's tall dark and handsome; apart from when he was played by Colin Firth. I didn't get that at all.” He places a gentle kiss on her fingertips, "Yes, I'll help to make you more comfortable."

 

"I like Mr. Darcy, he's one of my favourite male characters. Aside from people like Hamlet ..." She stares at her fingertips that have been kissed. "Thank you."

 

"Mine's gotta be Sherlock Holmes. I love mysteries. although the Dexter novels are great; the TV series not so much."

 

"Maybe I should read those," she murmurs. "Why do you like Sherlock Holmes, Patrick?"

 

He answers without really regarding the question, "It's like he lives in a different world to everyone else. He sees things, knows things that no one else could understand. He's alone apart from one friend who still misunderstands him. He has this unseen power above everyone else and no one to share it with."

 

"Do you see yourself as Mister Holmes?" She asks - she should be more worried about the woman she just killed, but this conversation is important to the way he views her. Crying is for later.

 

He laughs bitterly, "Would you ever want to be my Watson?"

 

"As long as that meant I didn't have to kill any more people," she whispers.

 

"And I thought we were getting along now-"

 

"We are! I just meant I don't ... I don't think I like it the way you do."

 

“Oh, that's ok. You'll get there," he promises and his smile is warm and he keeps her in his arms. It's easy to forget that they're both covered in blood and next to a mostly naked corpse. "What else do you wanna talk about?"

 

She's shivering and she just wants to get clean but her only solace right now is him so she dips her head against him pretending that in some way he's her Doctor.

 

"What do you do for a living?"

 

"Mergers and acquisitions," he offers, playing with her hands. He offers her the blanket she'd slept in, feeling how cold she's become. "What about you?"

 

She wraps up in the blanket, sighing softly as she starts to warm up. "I teach English."

 

"Ah, hence the love of old Austen. You must like children. I can't really stand them."

 

"I love children," she murmurs. "I used to nanny for a little while after uni, but I grew out of it. Why don't you like them?"

 

He nods and hums, half interested. He doesn't have very fond memories of his childhood. His mother was overbearing and his brother was the real apple of her eye.

 

"You have no idea how they're going to turn out. Everything you say and do around them influences them."

 

"That's why you be kind to them and teach them - so they turn out how they should."

 

"My teachers were never kind to me, so you maybe you do have a point. I slid below the radar. I bet they never thought I'd be...living with such a hot woman."

 

"I don't think dating hot women and living with them has anything to do with how well you do during school. But I'm sure it helps. Do you have a girlfriend, then?"

 

He's really not sure how to reaction that question, so he just shrugs and kisses her on the cheek.

 

It's peculiar to her that he makes comments to make himself seem above everyone else and then can't even elaborate. She peers at him when he kisses her cheek. "I thought you were going to kill me, but now you want me to be your student. Are you just really not sure what to do with me?"

 

"Clara, the last thing I've ever wanted is to be predictable. What do you want me to do with you?"

 

"I want to be let go - but logically speaking I know that isn't an option because if you let me go I'd be able to tell on you and I know your name. But then you'd tell on me and we'd both get sent to prison."

 

He smiles at that. Of course it was his plan from the moment he'd realised that she wasn't Jean; or rather she'd told him. He feels a twinge of guilt that he hadn't been 100% that it wasn't her that he'd grabbed from that funeral, but she really did look just like her. "You might not even need to be cuffed any more, but I have a soft spot for restraints. You don't even have to be a murderer for it to be kink. Although you wouldn't really know...are you really a virgin?"

 

"I really am a virgin, but of course I know about the bondage kink - I read enough to know." She hates his smile. She hates his questioning, and his voice - and she just wants to be let go. But there are steps toward her freedom and she feels like she's making them. "I don't see why people want to have sex so much, and if I lose my virginity I want it to be with someone who is important to me. I might be able to suck you off. I might be able to make a girl climax - but that means nothing to me really. It's just kissing different body parts, it's just pleasuring someone else. But letting someone literally inside of me? We have to be there emotionally before physically."

 

It's then that he realises why he's so tolerant of her, why her acting like Jean had been so initially successful. It's not just her looks that are similar, it's her beliefs too; her dreams and ambitions. All Jean ever used to talk about was children, family and love and yada yada yada. He tried to block it out the best he could but then she would compliment him and he'd eagerly accept the praise. His victims were always the women who saw sex as a lustful game; they cared more about cash and jewellery than friends and family. Apart from Danny, Patrick didn't know who had been close to Clara; who was worrying where the fuck she was.

 

"Sex is primal. Lust for pretty things never goes away and that's why people cheat on each other as they get older. Love is never strong enough to keep them together."

 

"I think you're wrong about that. You're a handsome man with power and money - but you don't know the first thing about love." Her gaze draws to his and she watches him for a little while, her hand reaching for his. "I think, though, that you may have loved someone and just not known it. You seemed happy whenever you thought I was her, and that's the happiest I've ever seen you in the past twenty-four hours. Though I'm not even sure if you feel emotions. Do you?" She's got a lot to say, and she's very talkative now that it's the only way to get the scene in front of her out of her head.

 

"Oh, I have a lot of emotions. I just have a very clear way of expressing them...but not to Jean. She wants to go travelling, see the world. That's probably what she's doing now. She just disappeared. She was fucking obsessed with me and then she vanished." He slams his fist to the wall in frustration.

 

She immediately moves to touch his shoulder in a comforting way. "Hey, calm down, it's okay," she murmurs - maybe all she has to do is be kind. "I'm sorry that she left. I shouldn't have brought her up."

 

He flinches at her touch, moves away from her grasp. He can practically hear her sweet-talking plan to escape him. "No you're not. You're never going to care what happens to me." His voice cracks and he feels ashamed to appear so vulnerable.

 

"That's not true," she whispers, fingers moving away from him, gaze doing the same. "I am sorry, please believe me."

 

He gets to his feet, leaving her alone in the room and kicking at Amy's legs as he exits. He wanders about on the streets for a while as it gets dark, looking up to the sky and wondering where Jean is and what she's doing. He doesn't know how not to be afraid of the future. He doesn't know if Clara can really help him.

 

When he leaves she sighs and she wraps the blanket around herself more tightly. She's stuck there in the same spot, and all she can do is stare at the body in front of her. Eventually, her breathing becomes heavy and she starts to cry again. Being alone for too long isn't good for her right now, because the longer she sits the more she realises how much she's done wrong. If only she could have saved the girl. If only she can save herself. All she wants is to be saved and she knows the only person she can ever really rely on is herself anyway, (the Doctor made sure to teach her that, too). After an hour or two she runs out of tears, she's so dehydrated that it hurts, her tongue is dry and feels like its swelling. She's uncomfortable, her wrist is probably broken at this point; her fingers are probably going to heal in the wrong way; her skin is caked in blood. She's getting tired, but she's so uncomfortable that sleep never comes and she just lays there, head resting against her radiator as she waits for him to return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your continued support. Please leave feedback here or send a message on tumblr if you like the story <3.


	6. Chapter 6

 

He's lost track of how long he's been gone when he finally returns to the warehouse. He knows now that the only way he's going to get a hint of respect from Clara is to treat her like she's his guest. Then maybe in return she'd do as he told her to. He's holding bags and bags of things, as if he's just come back from a holiday or something. It isn't like he can't afford to get a bit carried away. He sits down next to her and presents her with a first aid kit, to help with her fingers. "Sorry I took so long. I was looking for a good copy of this." He holds up a copy of Hamlet and then hands it to her.

 

There's something in his gesture that almost seems too nice, but he'd heard her about Hamlet, and she peeks up at him with a gaze of thanks. Hoarsely, she goes to speak, "It's okay, thank you for everything." She starts to flip through the copy of Hamlet, smiling the smallest bit, though she doesn't know if it's genuine or fake. Then she peeks up at him again. "May I have some water, Patrick? I know you might not have any now and that's okay ... but in a day or two I'd just like some bottled water." Her submissiveness is the cause of being alone. She needs the bare minimum at least, and with his absence that’s all she’s found herself wanting.

 

He regards the croaking in her voice and sighs. He can't even present her with the right things to keep her happy. She's probably read that book to death already. "I did get you some more things but I can't just hand them to you, you need to deserve them. We need to learn to trust each other. Clara, do you think you could help me know what to say to Jean?"

 

"Of course," she nods. "And Patrick? I really do appreciate everything that you're giving me. Thank you." She's then going to get some of the first aid things and she stares at her broken fingers to try to figure out how to set them correctly.

 

Patrick takes her hand without a moment's thought. He knows how fingers bend and break enough to know how to straighten them out again. "Could do with your Doctor friend right now" he jokes.

 

"I think I definitely could," she murmurs, eyes moving to him again. "He's very interesting, and pretty entertaining. You might get along with him if you tried. As long as you're not a soldier, or a researcher, or a traveller, or a child, or even a normal person on the street. He doesn't like people all that much..."

 

He's not sure if she's threatening him or trying to make him jealous. Maybe she's just reminiscing about a friend she's lost. "It sounds like none of the three of us are normal. Maybe that's why we both like you."

 

"I used to think I was pretty normal," she says quietly."You don't like me, though, I don't think. Do you?"

 

"Well, you're not dead yet. I guess that should say something." he replies flatly.

 

"It does," she murmurs, and then she's curling up again. "Am I ever going to be let out of these handcuffs? I'm not going to try to run anymore. There's nowhere to go."

 

He had been joking about uncuffing her. "You've killed someone, Clara. You're perfectly capable of grabbing hold of my chainsaw. If I'm dead then you're free to go. So no."

 

That makes her stomach feel upset again and she nods somewhat sadly. "How many people have you killed?"

 

The question angers him because he doesn't know the answer. He isn't aware that he is suppose to keep count. "You like to justify your reasoning before you do something morally wrong. I respect that. Yes, I'm a bad person. I deserve to die. But I don't want to, so the cuffs stay on, alright!" he growls.

 

At first she's going to stay silent, but then she's meeting his challenge quickly. "You don't know and you don't care that you're a bad person. I was just asking because I was curious, there's no need to get mad at me. Fine, cuffs on, staying on, whatever, I don't care, keep your kink of leaving me here like this. But eventually I'm going to need a shower, and I'm going to need to use the bathroom, and you're going to have to at least uncuff me and force me somewhere to do those things, you know? Because you want me to be a ‘hot woman’ don't you?"

 

He opens one of the bags he's brought with her and holds up a 2 litre bottle of water, tempted to open it and spill it on the floor. "Here's your fucking water, drink it, shower with it; whatever you want," he spits at her, passing her the rest of the things in the bag. Basic shower supplies. Only, he's actually bothered to pick out smelly girly things he thinks she'll like. They make him want to be sick but the woman in the shop assured him they would be perfect for a lucky lady.

 

She doesn't care how mad he is - she's gotten what she wants, so she winds up smiling at him, taking the bag of things. In the cutest and most pleased voice she can manage she says, "Thank you very much, Patrick." And then she goes to drink some of the water before looking at the different shower supplies.

 

"You're welcome," he hisses before going to the other side of the room, grabbing a duvet and pillow out from his bags and settling down for nap.

 

She watches him go, and then she starts to sort out how she's going to shower. "Why are you staying here?" she asks, rather loudly too.

 

"So that you can kill me in my sleep," he mutters tiredly. He's had enough of her shit for today, but he can't be bothered to walk home. He's hoping to give the impression that he’s worried about her.

 

"I'm starting to plan on it. But I might have to lose a hand." She shuts up, then. "Goodnight, Patrick."

 

There is no response.

 

* * *

 

A week later, Patrick wakes up the next morning after an early night's sleep. Sometimes he stays in the warehouse to sleep and other nights he makes the effort to go home to his comfy bed. He'd fallen asleep reading a Sherlock novel. He spends most of his time hiding and pretending to be someone that he isn't, so it feels good to be honest with someone about his likes and dislikes, even if they are as simple as his like for Sherlock Holmes. He'd gotten Clara some new reading material as well, although hers were a bit more educational.

 

Clara reads everything he gives her, and not because of the fact that he's given them to her, but because the faster she reads the more he has to bring. Pretty soon she's read through everything twice, a few of the books even a third time. She washes herself with the bottles of water he gives her, with the empty bottles she uses the restroom - and most of the time she does a pretty good job at burying everything under the floor. She's made herself a nest with books and her blanket and her soaps and her collection of empty water bottles, and her first aid things. It's becoming a bit easier for her to live here, though not really, she still wants to get out -  more than anything.

 

He rolls over to see her reading a book. "Morning beautiful, how are you today?"

 

She slowly looks over at him, flicking through the book carefully. "I'm okay, how are you?" Not that she cares - she never really cares all that much.

 

"Starving. Don't mind if I nibble on your fingers do you?" he jokes, although he's sure she might take it seriously.

 

That makes her feel a bit sick, but her lips turn up into a smile anyway and she forces out her own remark. "As long as I can nibble on yours too."

 

"That's so cheesy it makes me want to cry." he protests with a shake of his head, before he finds a sandwich in his shopping bag from the day before. He wonders if tonight's the night he's going to kill again. He's been so well behaved around his new playmate.

 

She winds up smiling softly and she goes back to reading before deciding to speak again. "What is, your sandwich?" Honestly, her sense of humour's never been the best but at least she's attempting.

 

"Nope, my food is perfectly fine - as is yours." He snorts at her attempt at a joke. Women just aren't funny. He searches through the pile of books surrounding Clara's corner of the room. "Is there any porn?"

 

"You're the one who got the books, you should know if there's any porn in them." But eventually she picks out one book and she offers it to him. "Here, this one has a very interesting scene in it that you might find attractive if you try really hard."

 

"Most of them I picked up randomly." he shrugs, mostly lying. He made sure it was a mix of fact and fiction. He didn't choose anything too romantic, that he was aware of. He looks a bit puzzled as he picks up the book and flicks through it, hoping for some pictures. "Alright, thanks. Why have I gotta try hard?"

 

"Because it's not very good," she says blankly. "The writing of the book is bad and I don't even think it should have been in the book, but whatever. It's a girl getting raped by some guy to help with some political thing. Some girl got run over by a bus in it. But it's pretty boring - it's the only one I didn't read twice or all the way through."

 

He's not sure why he finds it funny, but he's grinning from ear to ear at the description of the book. This is the kind of thing she thinks he likes, because he likes to rape and murder women. "Clara, I live out enough of this. Reading and writing is about escapism. I thought you would know that, as an English teacher..."

 

She huffs at him. "Well I don't know what you want from me, you didn't get me anything with romance or good sex in it and you asked for porn, so there you go."

 

"I gave you a book of poems. Beautiful words and symmetry can be pure porn to my eyes. It just depends on what they ignite in you. You have to find a connection to the story."

 

It's strange how easily those words make her like him, not permanently, but for a few seconds she thinks she can stand him. "There's a lot you've been hiding from me, Patrick," she murmurs, and then she's searching for the poem book and is offering it to him instead. "There you go."

 

"Maybe you just haven't been listening" he smiles as he takes the book from her. It's satisfying to tease her now that he knows the authority that's suppose to come with her job.

 

"I'm sorry." Though she isn't really all that sorry. She reaches for the book she was reading and goes to start reading again, shutting off the rest of the world and mostly her involvement with him.

 

It’s then silent for a while, but Patrick is soon breaking it. "It's my birthday today," he announces casually, still reading his book. "I'll have to go out tonight for a meal with my mother."

 

She peeks up at him curiously. "Happy Birthday, Patrick," she says, and she's trying to search his face for how he feels about his mother. "You don't like her, I take it."

 

"She likes to make a fuss of me and my brother. She asks too many questions; like when she'll be getting grandchildren. It's because she had no daughters and my father died a long time ago, in an accident. She's flying to London especially to see me and I'd rather be here with you, but life's a bitch."

 

“What if she thought you were married already?" she asks, and she really doesn't have much emotion in her voice at that.

 

"Then of course she'd ask to meet the lovely lady."

 

"Then find some random woman, throw her in a nice dress, and say you've gotten married and that she's pregnant and then she'll stop fussing maybe. You can even say that you have to leave because said wife works in an hour whenever you decide you don't want to put up with her anymore."

 

"It's true I could find a random woman and pay her to be my wife for the night, but I'd probably end up giving something away and have to kill her. It's been a week since Amy. I don't think I can hold out for much longer."

 

"Then kill her," she doesn’t even know she says it until a few seconds after it’s left her lips.

 

She's become so reserved, so used to the casual talk and idea of killing. "If that's what you want."

 

"I don't want that, but I can't stop you and it'll probably happen anyway," she shrugs, then goes back to reading her book. He's not fooling her, but she's pretty sure that he'll bring the woman here to kill her. If that happens, Clara's decided she'll just read while he does - it's a safe alternative.

 

"You know I was thinking, being with my family could be a tormenting experience for you, if you wanted to wear a pretty dress and listen to how amazing I am," he ponders, really not sure if it's a good idea or not.

 

For a moment she isn't sure she's heard him right, her gaze moves to his. "I think it's a very tormenting sounding kind of experience and I'm rather good at lying." She doesn't even want to escape at this point - she just wants to be able to stand up and walk around and get out of this warehouse for a few hours. "You can even handcuff me to your belt, to make sure I don't get away if you're worried about that."

 

Patrick nods, considering her conditions. "it can be a little reward for you. it is kind of our anniversary."

 

"A one week anniversary. I didn't know you were so romantic," she gives him a joking smile, honestly she's just happy that she's not going to be stuck here alone for a night.

 

"I can be anything if I try hard enough." He feels as if he's taking Jean to meet his mother and he very mixed emotions about how the night could go.

 

"I'm sure you can be. I can be too..." She watches him for a bit. "Our honeymoon in Costa Rica was very nice and we stayed in a little villa and were there for a week. We've had sex almost all of the time and I'm very loving and obsessed with you. My favourite thing about you is the look in your eyes and your smile and I just want you to be successful and don't really care about where my job goes as much. We want to have two kids - one boy, one girl. And I'm trying to get pregnant right now; if she asks of course. Our wedding was small and personal but I was dressed in a Valentino wedding gown, sadly we don't have any photos with us because of the fact that it was that personal - but if she wants to see the dress we can pull up a photo of it on the website."

 

She really must be a good liar. She might even grow to like him more once the night was through; thanks to his mother. He will appear kinder though, pretend that she's his loving wife. He might even convince himself that they are two normal people in a normal relationship. "Ok, but when do you start to lie?" he teases before moving over to her and planting a kiss on her lips. They have to be convincing.

 

She makes a soft sound at that kiss and she moves her free hand to cup his cheek, lips pressing back to his. She doesn't really feel anything toward him - but the kiss is passionate at least on her end and she only pulls back when she's sure that he's going to be happy with it. She smiles softly and then goes to kiss his jaw and nuzzle him gently. "I don't lie because I love you very much and you're the only person in the world that I really trust," she murmurs, slowly going to gaze at him.

 

It makes him uncomfortable, knowing that she has some power over him. He can't go back on his word now, though and he is genuinely looking forward to picking an outfit out for her and seeing the look on her face when she finally leaves the warehouse; be it only for a little while. He kisses her back softly, giving her a pleased smile. "I love you too, Mrs Bateman."

 

She keeps stroking his cheek gently for a few moments before her hand slips away and settles into her lap. "Convincing enough for you?"

 

"Just about." he mutters, getting up to his feet. "I'll go out and buy your dress. Uh...small should fit?"

 

"Yeah, or - if you're actually getting good dresses, you know, with _numbers_ as sizes - an eight."

 

"Alright, do I look like someone who makes a habit of buying dresses?" he reasons.

 

"No," she smiles at him. "But I've got no idea what you do in your free time."

 

"I give to charity, walk dogs and do absolutely everything I can to be an attractive and loving human being."

 

"More like you fuck women, kill dogs, and do absolutely everything you can to come off as an attractive and loving human being - which, you have almost fooled me into believing once or twice today."

 

"Maybe I'll have to buy myself a new suit for tonight. I don't want you to show me up when you walk into the restaurant wearing something stunning … I'm not really a cat person either."

 

"Maybe you should. Make our outfits contrast, or something like that, I mean if they do then we'll be the best dressed couple there and that is what matters, isn't it?"

 

He goes shopping for the outfits and is back a couple of hours later. He hopes that she approves of what he's chosen. It's maybe a bit too revealing, but he wants everyone to look at her and be jealous of how in lust and love they are. He sits down to read his book while she gets changed, tempted to glance over but knowing it'll be worth the wait when he decides he wants to finally fuck her.

 

The outfit he buys is nice - more than that, she's pleasantly surprised at how nice it is. It's revealing, but she doesn't care, if anything she's just glad to have new clothes. She puts them on, even though she's very aware that he could come over at any moment, and she's peeking over at him once she's done. "I need to go back to my car then, before we leave. I can get my makeup and my hair brush and everything."

 

"You can wear my coat, so that no one sees you." he says clearly.

 

"Of course, and you can watch me to make sure I don't do anything stupid."

 

He gets ready himself, undressing in front of her without shame. He even wears a bowtie. He slips a clean knife into his trouser pocket, just in case. Technically, Clara might be saving a life by going to this dinner. She shouldn't forget this favour the next time he brings someone back to the warehouse. "How do I look?"

 

 _Like him._ Her heart pounds and she swallows slightly as she looks at him. She can't find a single bad thing to say for the first time since they met. "Handsome," she murmurs sincerely. "Very handsome."

 

"And you look, rather ravishing," he smirks, taking in the sight of her in the well-fitted dress. It feels like they are about to go on a date and the thought makes him feel sick; although he's not sure it's for the usual reasons.

 

She actually smiles at that - like how a normal person smiles at a compliment. "Thank you." She's then waiting for him to make the moves to let her go, but she isn't pushing it at all.

 

He disappears into another room for a moment, getting the key to her handcuffs. Patiently he kneels down beside her and undoes the lock. He's conscious of her every move as he helps her to her feet. He doesn't let go of her, holding onto her hand tightly.

 

Standing is strange. She's been stuck sitting for a week and being able to stand? Well she has to hold onto him for support as she regains her centre of balance. "I ought to get a bracelet," she murmurs, looking at the bruising of her wrist. "So she doesn't notice."

 

It's like her skin has been tainted by the bruises on her wrist, her broken fingers and the mark on her face. But make up would do it's job and by the time they meet up with his mother, she'll look even more attractive than she does now. They will be the talking point of the whole evening; and they deserve to be.

 

She watches him for a while and when he doesn't say anything she just goes to kiss his cheek gently. "Patrick," she says. "Can we go now?" She knows not to lead him, that he has to think he controls her for the night.

 

He hands her his watch, so that she can use it to cover up the bruising. "It was my father's, but it's not too manly. You know you'll take care of it." he says - for once it sounds like a reassurance, rather than a threat. He then hands her his coat before leading the way towards the exit.

 

She puts on the watch and looks at it, cleaning off the face of it with her thumb. "I will," she promises, and she puts his coat on, securing it around herself, she walks with him to the exit, learning how to properly walk on her way there - stumbling just a couple of times, but soon she's got that same sway in her hips as always. She stares at the exit for a good while, then gazes at him.

 

He puts his arm around her waist and keeps it there are they walk out onto the street. She's insistent about going to her car and he figures it won't hurt if it's only going to take a second. They're only a ten minute walk from the restaurant and it's a pleasant evening weather-wise. Maybe he's actually going to enjoy his birthday meal this year.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your continued support. Please leave feedback here or send a message on tumblr if you like the story <3.


	7. Chapter 7

It's only when you don't have something for so long that you forget how much you miss it, at least that's what everyone says. She never really believed them until now, and as they walk out of the warehouse and all she can do is stare at things, like trees, for example. She never noticed how intricately made they were. The buildings are all beautiful. The clacking of her heels against the sidewalk is music to her ears. And the fresh air is maybe the best part of it all. She shows him to her car and she's then going to get her key out of her bra and she is opening the car door. She searches around for a bit before she is grabbing her makeup bag and her brush out of her purse. She straightens up and then looks over at him, tossing the key to him. "Here, keep it, so that you know I don't have a getaway." Then she's moving back into the car a bit and she goes to grab her cell phone, handing that to him too. "And this, too."

 

He's not sure where she'd go if she did try and make a get away. She'd have to start a brand new life and try to completely escape him. It wouldn't work, the memories of what she's done would haunt her and no matter how strong she claims to be, he can't imagine her brushing off the fact that she's murdered somebody and just carrying on with her life.

 

He's grateful to be given her phone and keys though and slips them into his jacket pocket. He can see the happiness and excitement in her eyes; to be the cause of it makes it heart beat faster in his chest. Back in the warehouse after he'd gotten changed, it had seemed as though she was looking at him in awe. He isn't sure if she knows the feeling's mutual.

 

They arrive early and are escorted to a table in the corner of the room. He takes her coat off of his shoulders and pulls out her chair for her; appearing a real gentleman.

 

Having makeup on again is something that suddenly gives her back a bit of confidence. Her hair is brushed out - and it's doing that thing where it curls at the ends on her shoulders. It's easy for her to act happy around him, and she settles into the chair that he pulls out for her simply, She has a smile on her face the whole time - and while it's somewhat fake, she finds herself being able to make it genuine.

 

Whenever they're settled in seats, she's moving to kiss just under his ear before pulling away, she giggles softly and moves to wipe away the little bit of lipstick that remains there. She's an incredible liar and she's making it kind of obvious to herself because she's trying to be this fantastic lover. Someone who is nice, kind, funny, adorable, pretty - and she thinks she might be pulling it off. The only person who she isn't sure she can fool is him.

 

He grabs hold of her hand as she moves it away from his lips, "Natural. You can act more natural than this." It seems way too forced. His mother hasn't even arrived yet and already people around them are looking over to see who is giggling. "Please." he adds with a squeeze of her hand before he lets go.

 

It isn't like it isn't natural for her - but she supposes their worlds are far different than she could ever imagine. She just smiles at him and sets her hand on her lap. "Stop being so wound up, Patrick." She doesn't even care that people are looking - let them look, she settles back in her chair and stops paying attention to him.

 

"I'm not wound up  - I'm relaxed. I'm perfectly relaxed," he retorts, arms folded across his chest. Of course, his mother chooses that moment to arrive and comes over to join them. He stands up and takes a deep breath as she hugs him. "Mum, this is Clara. My wife."

 

Clara's then going to hug his mother before he can say no, It makes sense to her, that she would hug her instead of just shake her hand, because this is his mother after all. "It's nice to finally meet you," she says, smiling softly. But he's made a terrible decision of introducing her like he did, and if she had the chance she'd step on his foot for it.

 

He can tell that Clara's hiding a glare behind that fake smile. He just wants to get to the point. There are already gonna be a lot of questions, might as well narrow it down. He nods and smiles as the two women embrace, before turning his attention to the menu and taking the attention off of himself for once; seeing as Clara thinks she can handle this by herself.

 

"Darling! Why wasn't I invited to this wedding? You never keep me updated. I'm only a phone call away. Your brother tells me every time he has a hospital appointment." Mrs Bateman protests, upset in her voice but seemingly happy just to be in her son's company.

 

"Sean's a drug addict, mother. You're scared that he's dead every day that he doesn't call. That's why he phones," Patrick replies, but he's mumbling and he can see that her attention's already on Clara.

 

"No matter. Tell me about yourself dear. What drew you to my boy?"

 

The fact that he is so rude to his mother makes her want to slap her hand over his mouth, it isn’t right to talk to the person who raised him like that.

 

"I think the better question is, what didn't? I mean he's handsome, of course, but he's resourceful, and brilliant. He's got a lot of very well tuned political views, and - underneath all of that sass - he's actually very kind and caring," she flicks her gaze to him for a moment. "And he makes me feel loved, which is very, very important." The gaze returns to his mother and she's regarding the woman with sympathy and interest. "And you, Mrs. Bateman, I'd love to hear all about you - Patrick doesn't talk about his childhood nearly enough."

 

He was hoping they would spend more time talking about Clara and how wonderful she was. He could tune out then and let them have their girl talk. He needs to control the situation but at the same time, he really feels the need to get absolutely shit faced. He misses the kill and even just - sex. He looks around the room and spies one, two, three suitable candidates.

 

His mother is talking but he can't make out the words because he can still feel Clara's eyes on him.

 

"Oh, Patrick. I bet you haven't even shown her any of your poems." She's looking at him for a mere second before her attention's back on Clara. "He's been a brilliant writer, ever since he was small. He keeps his emotions on his sleeve; such a romantic, like his father was. His brother was never interested in school, but Patrick was the hard worker. That's how he's become so successful today."

 

Poems. She's never found anything more ridiculous sounding than Patrick Bateman writing poems, but she watches him again and he doesn't look right. It's like his head is in two places at once. She reaches to take his hand at some point, and she pretends that, yes, of course he's shared his poems with her..

 

"He proposed to me in a poem," she says to his mother. "I was surprised, when he opened up to me about them, but he and I share a love for poetry." She's gazing at him like he's her world, and she laces her fingers with his. This is her natural. And she's hoping it's what natural is supposed to be.

 

He's smiling and nodding at his mother. He's embarrassed that she's brought up the poems. Clara will want to see them and it's like having to bare his soul to a girl who already has too much power over him. The only writing that Jean knows about is his love of crossword puzzles and it feels wrong that his mother isn't meeting her tonight instead. He wonders if Clara's thought of Danny at all; if she remembers her first date with him and how they probably shared a tender kiss before they said goodnight. The thought makes him shudder and he excuses himself to the restroom.

 

"That's beautiful, I knew he'd find the perfect woman for him someday." his mother muses, lost in the thought of how much her boy had grown into a confident and loving husband.

 

The fact that he leaves makes her think she's done something wrong. She settles in her chair, hands on her lap, and she's smiling at the woman. "I just hope that I can keep being perfect for him. It's hard sometimes, because he'll get really stuck. But overall - he's perfect, and I couldn't have asked for anyone better." She's looking off in the distance for him - hoping he'll return. It's not that she's incapable of taking care, or that she feels awkward around his mother, but because she wants to make sure that he's not going off on some killing spree, or something ridiculously stupid like that.

 

He can't even have a moment's rest because someone is snorting cocaine in one of the stalls and it reminds him of his idiot brother. In the corridor, two drunk girls are sharing a kiss and he's tempted to to slit their throats then and there. But Clara's face comes to his mind and he realises he'll have a lot of explaining to do if he comes back with as much as a speck of blood on his lips. So instead, he calls the waiter over to their table and orders their food and drinks. Sitting back down, he immediately brings his hand back to Clara's. He's the perfect husband and that's what he's got to be of the rest of the night.

 

Clara is honestly worried about him - not sure as to what's gotten into him. She'll ask later, when they're alone. For now she's completely kind to his mother and she engages him in the conversation time to time. Her fingers lace with his, her thumb reassuringly strokes the back of his hand. Whenever she's pretty sure that his mother is paying attention to something other than them she looks up at him, and she scans his face for a long time.

 

It's only as real as he can make it be. The three of them discuss poetry, current affairs and old black and white movies. He enjoys talking about popular culture and he's not lying to anyone when lists his favourite Whitney Houston songs. The look on Clara's face is just priceless and he likes that every new topic seems to surprise her.

 

Everything surprises her because he's never acted this normal before. His mother must have the magic touch or maybe he just is always like this whenever he's in the public eye. And she's posed with the question of; who is the real Patrick? She actually wouldn't mind the one that Mrs. Bateman describes. Though she never voices this and is only there as arm candy as well as a voice to weigh in on conversation that has nothing to do with him. The food is wonderful, better than anything he's brought her, and it feels good to drink alcohol again. By the end of it she's happier than she's been in weeks.

 

Patrick’s mother kisses her son on the cheek and gives her daughter in law a hug. "I should be getting back to the hotel now. It was absolutely lovely meeting you Clara. I'll come to visit again very soon." she promises as she gets up to leave.

 

Patrick is beaming from ear to ear, pissed on too much wine and the company of his hostage. Anyone observing them would have thought that they were a real family. He's proud of Clara's acting skills. Hell, her smile might even be genuine. He calls the waiter over to order another drink.

 

Once his mother is gone she expects him to act rude again - but instead he goes to order another drink and somehow it makes her uncomfortable. The more drunk he gets the more unsure she is of how he'll react. But she continues to pretend that they're married because it's the public.

 

He notices the worried look on her face as he starts sipping at the wine. "We'll go back soon, you can relax," he assures.

 

She nods, and then settles back a bit. "Do we have to?" Her voice is very quiet as she asks this.

 

He leans across the table, "We can't stay here all night, sweetheart."

 

"But we don't have to go back there either," she responds.

 

His hand cups her cheek, his thumb stroking at her face. She can't possibly be suggesting that he take her back to his place and let her stay with him in the luxury of his own home. "Then where would we go?"

 

"A hotel," she suggests - because the look in his eye says not to dare suggest anywhere else. "Not anywhere else, just a hotel, just tonight, then I'll go back and I won't ever ask for anything from you again."

 

"I guess I don't really want to spend the rest of my birthday in that warehouse," he muses, regarding her suggestion carefully. The one thing he's worried about is having the urge to kill someone and not being able to bring them back to a hotel room to stain the bed with blood.

 

"Who would?" she asks, watching him and then leaning into his touch the smallest bit. She isn't sure what else to say or do, it's like a land mine - if she steps in the wrong place everything's going to blow up in her face.

 

He gives her a quick kiss on the lips, the wine starting to go to his head. "Fine, we'll find somewhere to stay. But you have to get me a birthday present," he insists with a knowing smile. She better make it a good one. This was going to be a good opportunity for them to connect.

 

She kisses back softly and then stares at him whenever he says to give him a birthday present. Her virginity is one thing - but she can't yet. "I've no clue what you want, but I'll try."

 

"There's a lot we can learn from each other."

 

"Like what?" she searches his face.

 

"Well, why don't you give me an English lesson," he suggests. "I can be a good student." he gives her a wink.

 

"I don't think I'm the sort of teacher you're looking for," she murmurs, though the alcohol she's had is getting to her a bit too, and his flirtation is passing through her normal barriers. "You might be better suited finding a biology or chemistry teacher."

 

"Really? That's such a shame." he pouts at her.

 

"I'm good with words," she tells him. "I'm good at making people feel and I'm good at making them connect. But I'm not quite good at much else. I can make you think I love you, or think I hate you, or make you think I see you as a god with what I say or write down on a piece of paper - but language and physicality are two very different things."

 

He's finished his drink and and hands her back his coat. He'll settle for the first hotel they see and pay for the best room that they have. "I couldn't do what I do and not know all that there is to know about body language," he purrs into her ear as he leads her out into the cold of the night. He always senses the fear, deep down under everything showing on the surface. She was a good liar, but still as terrified as his other victims whenever he held the knife near her or suggested that he was displeased with her efforts. "I'll know what you'll want to do tonight and what you won't. But I can't promise you it'll make a difference."

 

There's something deliciously seductive to his words for some reason. In the end she knows he has the full power and maybe it's the alcohol taking over but she thinks he's starting to win her over. "What do you think I'll want?"

 

"To feel wanted," he replies, holding her close as he walks her into the hotel. His hands wander to her arse and he gives it a squeeze before grabbing a pen from reception to check in.

 

The sad thing is that he's right - she does want to feel wanted, and right now she doesn't care by who. But she doesn't think she can give him what he wants, especially because she's not forgotten what he does and what he's capable of.

 

After they check in she peers up at him. "I think you want to feel wanted too, Patrick," she murmurs, and he might hurt her for this, but maybe he's too drunk. "I think you force women to do things 'cause you don't feel wanted and you want them to want you however you wish. But that isn't the way the world works. I think you want to kill someone tonight and I think you're going to try to get me to give you my virginity to stop you. The truth is you'll probably win at some point, but I want you to know that you are wanted by me - at least sort of, but not in the way you keep implying. I'm not like Jean - I'm not obsessed with you and I don't want to do anything for you, and I don't really care about you all that much - but I want you more than I want to."

 

Patrick stumbles into the bedroom but then throws her down onto the bed. He's shown a kindness and spend a pleasant evening with her and this is how she repays him; with taunts that she'll never truly tolerate him, let alone want him. His mannerisms change as he sits down with her on the bed. "I can't spill any blood here, you dumb bitch. you wanted a nice night in a hotel and I'm giving you your wish. Do you think I would have gone to all that effort tonight to earn your trust, only to throw it away on a whore? Not today, not with you after such a... content meal. I'm making the most of what I can get out of this. I want to feel innocent and free - just a man in a shit bow tie who likes Madonna and Duran Duran. This is our honeymoon, Mrs Bateman and I will respect your judgement about how it should be spent."

 

Being thrown on the bed causes her to let out a sound of surprise, but it doesn't really hurt. She looks over at him and immediately she feels bad for him. She slowly climbs over to him and goes to take off his bow tie. "Or maybe you should just try to be a man," she murmurs. She goes to hug him - because a hug is the most genuine thing she can give him. "I'm sorry that your life seems so fucked up."

 

It's for these reasons that he's normally very careful not to drink too much. He can't very well keep control and make sure that his victim doesn't get away if he can't even see straight. He feels a bit dizzy and is thankful that she's there for him to lean on but it makes him feel childlike and helpless. He closes his eyes, wishing that they were both back in the warehouse where he could just leave her feeling scared and used.

 

"Carl Jung said that every addiction can be fought the same way; be it alcohol or morphine or idealism," he slurs.

 

"And what way is that?" He's worrying her and she doesn't know why. She could run right now - but she doesn't. Maybe it's because he looks like him. But whatever the reason, she's keeping him close.

 

He frowns, looking confused; as life he's just forgotten what he was talking about. "Don't remember."

 

"Oh." She kisses his forehead. "Patrick, maybe you should sleep."

 

"I'm ok. I've stayed here before. There's a really nice bath, maybe you should try it out." he mutters.

 

"Okay," she stares at him for a moment. "Patrick?"

 

"Yes?"

 

"You could join me for the bath if you wanted."

 

He's hesitant to reply to her at first, not really knowing what she has in mind. Surely she wants him to sober up first or something. He moves off of the bed and towards the bathroom. "If you're sure?"

 

"We've seen enough of each other for me to be okay with saving water." She slides off the bed and goes to take his hand. She's going to show him nice things can happen without sex.

 

He nods, willing himself to get a grip and not get carried away once he sees her naked again. He leads her to the bathroom and then starts to undress. He's staying quiet but he doesn't want to ruin the mood. He also feels a little sick and doesn't want to bring anything up.

 

She gets undressed too - after starting the water. She catches gaze of herself in the mirror, and though he's in the room, she's moving over to the mirror, fingers moving to gently touch it. She doesn't look good, she goes to slide the watch he let her borrow down on her wrist a little and the bruise is eerie looking. Her fingers move over the bruise uncertainly.

 

"Do you want a new bandage? We can get some from reception?"

 

"Later, yes. Thank you."

 

He helps her take the watch off, fingers moving over her skin carefully. They're a bit jittery but he manages the task. "You look great," he assures before getting into the tub.

 

"Thank you." She gets into the tub with him and she winds up pressing against his chest.

 

“Really, really beautiful" he whispers.

 

"Do you really think so?"

 

He nods, biting down on his lip. The water's relaxing and he can't help but lean in to give her a gentle kiss.

 

At first she goes to pull away - but then she's kissing back. She's tired and tipsy and he's calling her everything she wants. And all she can really see in him is the Doctor. She's fooling herself as she keeps moving her lips against his for a moment before pulling back and looking at him with wide eyes.

 

He moans softly against her mouth, enjoying the feel of her lips willingly moving against his. The attraction's been there since day one and he's surprised she's lasted this long without appearing resistant. It would be so easy now to force himself on her, just thrust inside her and enjoy her discomfort and the muffling sound of her screaming as he covered her face with his hand. The whole scene flashes before his eyes and he imagines every detail, right down to the end where he stabs her in the cunt and leaves her to bleed into the bath of water. He's suddenly aware that he's been staring blankly for a while and looks back into her eyes.

 

"What's wrong?" she asks him, reaching to touch his cheek. She knows already that he's thinking about not pleasant things after she finishes saying it, but at least she's pretending to care. Her fingers drift over his lips briefly.

 

"I just don't want you to get hurt." he mutters. He feels odd being honest with her but he's tired and can't be bothered to work up the energy to lie or fight with her.

 

"Since when did you care about that," she breathes, but the normal bite of her tone is gone. She goes to get some soap and starts to wash herself, dipping into the water further. "I'm sorry, it means a lot to me - that you actually care. I thought you hated me."

 

"I don't hate anyone, not really. It's more about love." he groans before copying her actions. He finds it frustrating how honest he's being, yet he can tell that she's holding a lot back .

 

"Love? What do you know about love?" she whispers. "Because sometimes I don't think I really know the first thing about it. Everyone I love dies."

 

He ignores the question. "Don't you have any family?"

 

"I have my father, my nan, but they're all that's left. The first man I ever really fell in love with -- well he's gone, and now Danny is too. And it's all my fault."

 

"I thought he was Jean's boyfriend. I wouldn't have touched him otherwise."

 

"He would have ended up dying anyway," she murmurs. "I should have known he would."

 

"Why? Was he a killer too, or a cop?"

 

"A soldier - he was a soldier, and then he was a teacher. A maths teacher. How do you even go from being a soldier to being a maths teacher?" she sighs softly. "But no, that's not why - it's cause I let him know my secrets, and I always knew not to tell him."

 

"What kind of secrets?" he asks curiously. Maybe that's why she had the same issue with him; not just because he was a murderer.

 

"The kind of secrets that people don't believe because they sound like rubbish lies." And that's all she'll tell him.

 

"Everyone has secrets Clara and they're secrets for a reason. I should know. I've told you more about myself than i've ever told anyone else and..." He pauses, looking away from her. "I can understand how scared you must have been."

 

" ... I travelled the stars," she tells him - it can't sound more crazy than him liking poetry. "I've seen the birth and the end of the Earth and I know about almost every single planet out there. I have enemies and friends - but I think Danny would have been killed anyway because ... my enemies are much stronger than I could even imagine."

 

"I thought I was the one who was pissed?" he teases her, but smiles fondly at the idea of other planets and the beginning and end of everything. "Mmm, well am I your enemy?"

 

"Maybe I am, who knows," she whispers, and then she shakes her head. "No, you're not my enemy, but I don't know if you're my friend either. You kept me locked up in a warehouse handcuffed to a radiator with only books for entertainment."

 

"In my defence, they were very interesting books. They helped me learn a bit about you; your likes and dislikes. I'm not very good at - friends - "

 

"Your mum seemed to think you were actually very popular."

 

"I'm a businessman. I work with a lot of people and mention them to my mother if she asks. Jean was the only person I could really tolerate," he admits. He's had enough of admitting how pathetic he is. The drinks are wearing off and he wants to forget about everything that’s happened tonight.

 

"You were the only friend I ever really cared about," she whispers. "The person you look like, I mean. I've had plenty of other friends, but him - he was everything, I mean I was still myself, but he just made me feel like something, you know? Like I didn't have to sit around and nanny anymore, I could be what I wanted to be and do the things I wanted to do. And he made me feel like I was special, and perfect, even when I wasn't, even when he teased me or left me behind. He had full faith in me and I protected him and he protected me ... and then he was gone."

 

"I guess now I know why your smile seemed so genuine tonight then. I'm not gonna compete with your dead men."

 

"And I'm not going to be a replacement for your Jean."

 

He steps out of the bath, grabbing a towel and wrapping around himself. She looks as vulnerable and shaken as he had been minutes ago. Now he just feels like he's about to pass out and he can't help but just speak his mind.

 

"You never could, you're nothing like her. I realised it after you thrust the knife into Amy. Jean had ambition, she was fiery and sarcastic but she was a coward whenever I asked her opinion of something. She was scared of her own shadow. She may have been in love with me, but she would have done anything not to kill an innocent. Unlike you, she never seemed to have that spark of anger and sense of judgment. You follow your gut and trust your instincts. It was a mercy killing, but the coldness was there and that's a path Jean would never follow. You're much more like me than she'll ever be and it's cynical, of course, but that's what's keeping you alive. I want to see you lose control, because I think I might fall in love to see the darkness in you."

 

All of his words are intense - this is the most he's spoken since they've met and she's hanging on to every word. She isn't Jean - she never could be. He recognises things about herself that she doesn't even understand and he's brought her down already - made her wade in his metaphorical darkness. Is it awful of her; truly awful to wonder if some part of her enjoyed what she did to Amy? She put her out of her misery, but was there something more in that tinge of numbness? A pleasure even? He's making her question her very being while she's at her most vulnerable - naked, baring her secrets. She's not letting him take advantage of her body, but her mind is another story.

 

"That darkness doesn't exist; I save people, except for when I know I can't. Sometimes I have to play God and determine who lives and who dies but that ... makes me a hero it doesn't make me a villain." Is she wrong? Has the Doctor's own morale gotten her so caught up in a twisted reality? "You might have to wait a long time to see me take the plunge."

 

She stands up, goes to get her own towel and she wraps it around herself, she just barely looks over at him. "Are you sure that I'm like you?"

 

He waits until she confronts him, standing in the doorway of the bathroom. If she wants to be a hero then he wonders if she wants to save him. This friend of hers must have taught her a lot about his own sense of morality. There's no reason why he couldn't do the same now that the man was gone.

 

"Gods are never heroes. They make sacrifices and make some of the big decisions but it's the profits that carry out their work. How the deeds are done is up to the little men. Humans are weak and we thrive off of the basic pleasures. Mixing them together with pain just comes more naturally to some people than it does to others. So yes, we are both the 'some'."

 

He slips on his boxers and moves over to the bed. He considers sleeping on the floor. It should make her feel respected on some level. Maybe he just wants to see the shocked look on her face when he behaves like a polite gentleman again.

 

On the subject of Heroes, he's got a damn song stuck in his head. He mumbles the lyrics under his breath as decides that he will sleep in the incredibly comfortable bed after all. "I can remember. Standing, by the wall. And the guns shot above our heads. And we kissed, as though nothing could fall. And the shame was on the other side. Oh we can beat them, for ever and ever. Then we could be Heroes, just for one day." He sinks down into the covers and closes his eyes.

 

He's so ... interesting. She can't think of any other words to describe him. He's interesting, and alluring, and there's just something there that attracts her more than anything in the world should. They are the same, he's said, and in a way she's starting to believe him. She stands there at the doorway of the bathroom, towel wrapped around her, water running down her shoulders, her hair still drenched. She listens to him mumble the lyrics of the song, and he's winning her over - an insane amount. Slowly, she moves to put a dressing gown on, and then she slips into bed next to him, curling up against his side. She rests her forehead on his shoulder.

 

"It's only been a week and I'm already understanding you more than anyone else has," she whispers. "And you're understanding me. How much longer do you think we have before everything explodes?"

 

He opens his eyes quickly and watches her walk over to the bed and feels like he's in a porn movie. Only the kind of things he’s watched involve plane and car crashes, natural disasters and she'd guessed it; explosions of every kind. He promises himself never to compare her to Jean again. She's already something different entirely. Now he just has to make her forget about her old friend. "Not long, the fuse has been lit." he mumbles before he feels himself begin to drift into sleep.

 


	8. Chapter 8

The next day they are back at the warehouse but things feel different. They're on more of an equal footing now. They both know personal things about each other and she seems to slowly be coming around to his way of thinking. Her father and grandmother are apparently the only people that she has left but he can't afford to let her see them. The more she gets used to just having him for company, the more she'll enjoy it. Maybe eventually they can move away and begin an adventure together, like the ones she had with her friend. He doesn't handcuff her anymore. He just talks to her, reads her books and even shows her videos on his phone.

 

They carry on like that for a few days but he keeps coming back to the warehouse earlier and earlier. He's finishing work before he's really supposed to; wanting to spend more time with her and less being tempted by the sluts that hang out outside his office building.  In the end he takes  a couple of them home but they both leave alive and mostly satisfied. Clara's next steps will be going in his house and the possibility of going out again; something low key with barely any risks. But he finds himself getting more and more tired; she's been a distraction but now it's time for another kill. Everything has become so dull when it doesn't involve her. It's all build up without a release. Since the hotel he'd convinced himself that it would be worth it; waiting until she was prime. She's going to help him take a life away from this world.

 

"I want you to tell me what it felt like, when you sank the knife into her."

 

Falling in love with him is easy. It's easier than breathing - or it would be if she had to breathe through a dust covered tube. The dust covers her insides, coating her in a sea of gray, and in some areas she even starts to turn black. After being in the warehouse again, she realises how alone she truly is in the world - its like he's created an epiphany for her. All she has is him, she'll never see her daddy or her nan again. Just like Jean is dead to him, she knows she has to make her family dead to her. He may kill people physically, but she finds that she does the hardest thing - which is let go of her own dreams of seeing the people she loves the most.

 

So she projects her love onto him and that's what makes it easy - not the fact that it actually is. Whenever he's around she's happier. Whenever he isn't around she feels alone and hates not knowing what's going on. The days he comes earlier and earlier, the more of a happy reaction he gets out of her. And after the second week mark, she finds that all she really needs is this relationship they have - she can live in this warehouse and give him company. Sometimes she'll pick out poems she likes and share them with him, other times she'll think up poems and commit them to memory for him.

 

Today, she's made a poem, but she never says it because he's said what she's been waiting to hear. At first she's quiet and doesn't say anything, because she's afraid of what he'll think if she doesn't say pleasure.

 

"I acted on impulse ... and I felt so much fear because I was giving up my morality. But whenever I let go of the knife ... my hands were numb, and blood was coating them, and all I could do was stare. The blood wouldn't leave - I ... I remember every single detail about what happened, I'm sorry, I don't know - " she has to take a breath, has to calm herself down. It's hard to talk about what occurred specifically. "You gave me the knife, and I remembered having the choice to make, and then my stomach was churning, and my heart was pounding. Everything felt hot and her flesh gave a lot of resistance, but I kept pushing forward and then I was just ... numb and I wanted to cry but at first I couldn't."

 

"It's okay," he whispers, wrapping a comforting arm around her. He's brought pillows from the house and she sleeps on a mattress on the floor now. Sometimes he stays the night with her, cuddling her as they fall asleep. But he hasn't hurt her or kissed her since the hotel and he knows that she's grateful for that. Their friendship is constantly evolving though and he hopes that tonight will be another development in the chase.

 

He listens to her describe it and is thankful that the detail isn't too much. He doesn't want to get too turned on when he already has plans for them to go out tonight (be it not for long).

 

"The numb and the cold, that's the beginning of what I began to feel. After my first kill, it got stronger and stronger as the pleasure increased. The power takes over and then there's this burning sensation that I just can't explain," he muses, his hands cupping her face lovingly. "But I want to share it with you."

 

Her stomach drops when he cups her face and her gaze locks with his. One of her hands moves up to cup one of his and she's trying so hard to say no to his proposition, but she wants to feel what he's talking about and she wants to understand why he does what he does. Their friendship means a lot to her and she feels like saying no will ruin it.

 

"Why did you keep doing it?" she asks. "Because I don't feed off of the cold and the numb, Patrick. I like to be warm and I like to make people feel. What if I never feel that burning sensation and it's just always me being afraid?"

 

"I liked the cold because it reminded me that I was alone. I like hard truths. The whole world's full of propaganda and to feel something real feels like electricity flowing down my spine. I said that we were the same, but now we have each other. You'll make them feel so alive in their last moments, so thankful for all that they had. They can take it to the next life with them. And you'll be warm because I'll be there with you watching, and you'll make me feel proud."

 

"I - don't..." she doesn't want to disappoint him, she can't stand it when he yells, but at the same time she isn't afraid to go against him most of the time. "If we did it to someone ... it would ... have to be someone we were saving. It would have to be ... someone who was going to die soon anyway." Maybe she can just push away when everything gets hard. "I don't think I can do it, Patrick - killing Amy was hard enough. Aren't you just happy with me the way I am?"

 

He's disappointed at first, but he understand that she still needs a bit of time to get her head around it completely. "What about criminals? Dexter's a serial killer but he only goes after those who escape the law," he suggests helpfully, but he doesn't really want to narrow down their options. He doesn't want to stalk them like Dexter does. He enjoys the fact that it's random and it's up to fate who will be the next to die.

 

"I just want to be close to you and for you to understand. I believe that you were meant to do this with me. You said that you always knew that Danny was going to die; it's the same about me knowing that you can kill."

 

Maybe he's right, she looks at him for a few moments, and she's searching his face for anything of malice; but the malice isn't there anymore. Her eyes are wide and innocent, though she's really not that anymore. "If I do this ... this one time - if I do this and I don't like it will you still be my friend?"

 

"You'll be my Queen," he promises in a sweet voice, but inside he feels sick. Sweet talk isn't his favourite thing in the world but it seems to work on her. His Queen of the damned though, she could be. He kisses her forehead then takes hold of her hand. "Are you ready, Clara Oswald?"

 

She's never wanted to be queen. She's gotten offers before, from emperors and kings, but all of the time she's said no. For him, though? For him she'd be a goddess if he asked her to be. She squeezes his hands gently, and then finds some of her old personality - some of it that wasn't wiped away after being locked in the warehouse again. "Only if there's another hotel at the end," she murmurs playfully. "A queen can't spend the night in a warehouse."

 

"Very well, we'll see how today goes first. I've never taught a teacher before. I've never taught anyone." he chuckles, glad that she's accepted the offer. To demonstrate his trust the first thing he does is hand her his knife. He stands right in front of her and dares her, "Mark me" He has to make sure that she's prepared to use this knife again.

 

"What?" She asks, slowly standing up, her hand slowly tightening around the hilt of the knife. "You want me to cut you?"

 

"Not deeply, obviously. But yes. Just nip at my face or something."

 

He's trusting her too much for her to let him down, and so she moves forward to cup his cheek. "You must really want me to do this if you're okay with me cutting up your pretty face."

 

"Fine you're right. I take a lot of care to look this good," he caves in but he's smiling. "That's the kind of talk that will work wonders on our guest though. I think you're ready." He takes back the knife and leads the way out of the warehouse. He wants to take her to a rough bit of town, somewhere they're likely to find someone who deserves to die.

 

She smiles back at him and then she follows after him, at least she can use words. If everything goes sour, she'll just act - pretend - she can do that. She catches up to him, walking by his side. "Where are we going?"

 

"We're going to stand on the corner of this street, you're going to pick who to take back with us."

 

"Why are you letting me pick?" But she's already surveying the area - and it makes her feel awful inside that she is.

 

"It seems only right that you decide. This is going to be your real first kill. Pick someone who you think deserves it. Someone we can have some fun with."

 

So she starts to look around for people - but how can she tell if someone deserves it or not? They all look the same to her, each man, each woman. She doesn't understand how it can be so easy to pick someone out of the bunch; until she sees this woman that makes her gut churn. She's got short blonde hair, but the hair isn't real. And her lipstick is a deep, dark red. She's smoking a cigarette, (Clara hates cigarettes, always has). "How do we tell if they're criminals?"

 

"I don't normally have to. But sometimes they'll be overly smug, appear in a world of their own … basically me." he laughs. He's full of pride just watching her pick. She's come so far in just a couple of weeks.

 

"Well then I guess we ought to just tie you up instead," she smiles at him softly, but then she goes back to intently watching the woman - she sees her going to start walking away and she looks like she's wearing clothes that are far too expensive for this part of town. So she grabs ahold of Patrick's wrist and starts to stalk after the woman as carefully and covertly as she can (it isn't like she hasn't done that sort of thing before).

 

She's grabbing hold of his hand and he realises that she's chosen already. The woman is moderately attractive but wears far too much make up. He glances at Clara and sees how hard she's concentrating. He's not sure if she wants to follow the woman and find out some kind of proof that she's a bad person...but really they could be there all night if they did that. Just as he's thinking he should jump her, the blonde stops at an alleyway and slips what is very clearly a bag of drugs into a young person's hand. As soon as the three of them are alone again, he corners her and covers her mouth with his hands.

 

When she sees the drug trade happen, there's this rush of adrenaline that starts in her gut because - she was right. For some reason she's overly happy about that and whenever he covers the woman's mouth she goes to rip the wig off of her head, along with the cap. Her true hair is greasy and black and Clara's staring at her - not sure what to feel. She looks up at Patrick. "I think she looks better as a blonde."

 

"Me too." he agrees, beaming at how eager she is. His fingers move around the woman's neck. "Not sure she's worthy of these clothes though, or even some of this flesh..." he hisses before quickly taking her off of the street and into the warehouse. "Lock the door," he tells Clara and throws her the key while he chains their victim to the wall. "What's your name, stranger?" he asks the stunned woman.

 

She goes off as he says to lock the door - but she's very careful about it, behind her she listens very carefully to the woman, and she looks back at her whenever she says the name of, "Amber." It's quite obvious to Clara that she's lying - and she's shaking her head at the woman saying, "We need to know your proper name."

 

"But Amber is my proper name," she protests, and for some reason that makes Clara the slightest bit angry - because should a criminal really be talking to her like that?

 

"No it isn't, I can tell that you're lying - it's really easy because you say Amber, but it doesn't sound right and you draw out syllables you shouldn't, so what's your name, it really shouldn't be this difficult to say - it's not like your first name is going to be given out to the public."

 

And so the woman spits out her real name, just because apparently Clara annoys her to some extent, "Maria, my name's Maria."

 

Clara looks up at Patrick. "I know it doesn't matter, not really, but I wanted her to tell the truth. Sorry."

 

He sniggers and points at Clara. "She's a high school teacher. You didn't stand a chance."  He kneels beside her, knife in his hand. He cuts some holes in her skirt and then her blouse as well. "Amber, Maria, whatever. You're gonna die in here, so it doesn't really matter what you have to say. You're a low life drug dealer who appears to spend her money on tarting herself up. That's good enough for Clara, so it's good enough for me. I don't want to hear anymore of your story."

 

"I do, actually," Clara interjects - because well, this is her murder not his, and if she wants to hear the story then she will. "Why do you do it? The drug dealing thing."

 

"Cause I like money," the woman growls, and she really doesn't seem to enjoy having her clothing cut up.

 

"Well that's a dumb reason - I like money, he likes money, that's why you have to work hard for money," she's not feeling quite right, like the words are coming out detached and aren't quite authentic. "Never mind, I lied, I don't want to hear about your story because its boring." Her eyes start to move over Patrick again, she doesn't care what he does at this point. She's free and being trusted and taught; that's what matters.

 

He's surprised when she interrupts but glad in a way; she's learning by herself and doesn't need him to guide her through it step by step. "Then what do you want, sweetheart? What do you think she deserves?" Patricks asks his accomplice as he rids the drug dealer of her clothes. The vulnerability is a feast to his eyes.

 

"She definitely doesn't deserve you," she winds up saying. Its a comment that's cold and selfish and she's got no idea why she says it, She peeks at him for a moment, cheeks turning pink. "Or ... her hair. She's got fake hair anyway - she's got no need for the real hair."

 

Patrick raises an eyebrow, "Of course not. But are you saying you don't want me to rape her?" He pouts at that but then he's already pulling at her hair and cutting it off with the knife. She seems to be crying already and he has to roll his eyes.

 

"Why would you even want to? She's not even pretty - at least Amy was pretty." Though it isn't like she actually cares, and she's just watching as the woman sobs because of her fate being chosen by two practically married people. Plus she's just lost all of her hair, that could be a reason too.

 

He shrugs, "I'll just close my eyes and pretend it's you." Straight after he's said it he's not sure if it was the right thing to say. Screw that though, they had to live in the moment and he doesn't want to fight in front of their guest.

 

She smiles at that softly, and then she's going to take his knife from him briefly. She gets down on the woman's level and she just goes to press the blade to her cheek - a bit shaky - but she's doing this for him, she just has to keep remembering that if she impresses him she gets out of here. "That means that you can't scream, you know? Because I'd never scream," she traces the knife over the woman's lips and the woman shudders and starts to back away. "And if you do scream - if you don't make him think you like it - then I'll just get rid of your tongue."

 

Patrick bites down on his bottom lip, kicking off his trousers and boxers and getting into position above Maria. His cock twitches as he watches Clara move the knife across the criminal's face. He locks eyes with Clara as he thrusts his cock inside the woman's cunt. "You heard the lady, be a good girl for me and take my cock like the little whore that you are" he whispers but he's too fascinated by Clara's reaction to move his gaze away from hers. He begins at a slow pace, his thrusts deep and punishing.

 

And Clara's gaze becomes locked with his. She's never had sex, but that doesn't mean that she doesn't feel the smallest bit of ownership over him, He's her teacher - specifically hers. She gets angry, though, when the woman whimpers instead of moans, and she goes to slash the knife across her cheek. It's more of an exhilarating feeling than a cold one. "I said enjoy it, you sound like a puppy who's in trouble." The woman holds back a scream, and she can tell, and she hates the fact that she's crying, but she lets her keep crying because she would be too, she supposes, but soon she's listening to the woman attempt to moan - and it sounds pathetic, but she isn't ready to do what she wants to just yet, so she slashes the woman's cheek again, telling her to make them louder - and she does, and all of the control Clara constantly craves is satisfied for a split second.

 

He's listening to them both but it's more background noise than anything else. Her pussy's starting to get wet and he's watching Clara and just wishing that he could take her and fuck her against the wall. This woman is already boring him and he wants to see Clara gather the strength to end this thing tonight, as soon as possible. He speeds up his thrusts, hips slamming against hers as he moans and he accidentally lets out Clara's name because he's distracted.

 

The opportunity presents itself very quickly - and she goes to cut the woman one more time in a random place before she stands up, setting the knife to the side, moving so she's next to Patrick. She can't give him what he want's yet, but she can make him think he's getting it. So she goes to start kissing over his skin randomly. "Tell me what you want to do to me, Patrick, I want to know."

 

"Fuck," he hisses at her words before grabbing hold of her head and kissing her hard. He wonders if this is all an act or if she's getting the slightest bit turned on by what's going on. He pulls away to answer her but he hasn't looked at Maria since he first thrust inside her. The words spill from his mouth like a poem because they are true, "I want to kiss all over your body, mark you as mine by slamming you up against the wall and thrusting inside your tight little virgin hole. I want to show you what it feels like for your whole body to feel like it's on fire because you're on the verge of cumming. I'm going to pound your pussy so hard that you'll have bruises in the morning and I’ll have to kiss them better, before I slip my fingers inside you again and taste your juices under my tongue."

 

She's been turned on before, but never like this - never but such simple words. She wants it. For the first time, she wants him to fuck her instead. She doesn't care about the pain or the fact that it's probably meaningless to him, because it's the way he says it and the way he acts. She presses forward to kiss him again - and it's pretty clear that the woman isn't happy by the sounds she's making, but Clara's too involved with him to care. She pulls her mouth from his to grin at him. "Make her scream, Patrick, I want a reason to cut out her tongue."

 

He nods, finally concentrating on the woman he's fucking. He's seen Clara's pupils dilate and it urges him on knowing that she's wet for him. He fucks her roughly, putting all of his strength into the thrusts. Then he bites down hard on her nipple, just to guarantee a scream. Then he's kissing Clara's neck and whispering, "Go on, my good little girl."

 

She leans over the woman without a second thought, and she isn't strong enough to force her teeth open, so she just uses the knife to crack a few of the teeth and press her fingers to the gums of the woman's mouth. She's then cutting out the tongue as best as she can, listening as the woman starts to gurgle on her own blood. It doesn't sound the same as when Amy did it, because Amy was innocent and shouldn't have been killed. This woman, Clara thinks, deserves death. She goes to look at the tongue, and it's not even as pink as Amy's. "See, this is what happens when you smoke." She's then going to place the tongue over the woman's face, making her feel her own muscle.

 

The sight makes Patrick close to cumming as he watches Clara cut the woman's tongue out. When he feels his release coming, he slips out of her cunt and moves up her body to shoot his cum into her mouth. "Such a shame you can't taste it." he sniggers.

 

She goes to take a little bit of the dribbled cum onto her finger and then smiles at him softly. "But I can," she says sucking on her finger for a moment, and then she's going to get the knife again and she offers it to him. "I don't know what else to do, Patrick," she murmurs, like she's asking for help.

 

He kisses her cheek and whispers, "She's not that exciting, this one. We've just got to work out how to best put her out of her misery."

 

She watches him for a little while before looking over the woman. "I read something in one of the books you got me that I might like to try," she breathes. "But ..."

"Then do it, if you want to."

 

She shakes her head, offering the knife back to him again. The truth is that she doesn't think she can kill her. He takes it from her and looks Maria over. He sits at the bottom of her body and decides to begin cutting off her toes. She stays watching him, but it's like Amy all over again, just with another body part. "Cutting off her toes won't kill her," she says.

 

"I know that." he snorts.

 

"Okay," she's then going silent - seeing what else he's planning to do.

 

"When you were travelling with your doctor, what happened when you came across people like this?"

 

"We never came across people like this - not really. Sometimes we'd stop evil people, you know? But never proper criminals like this."

 

"And how would you stop them, with a cup of coffee and a chat?"

 

"No, of course not-" by killing them. By ending them. The Daleks and the Cybermen and the Zygons and whomever else - they always got rid of them. Sometimes the people were just misunderstood - but whenever they weren't they were gone. And she's slowly realising that not everything can be cured with changing someone's views on their life.

 

"How do you change someone's opinion on abortion, religion, gay marriage? You can't. You can do all of the convincing that you like but they won't budge even if they have their doubts; maybe they can appear accepting on the surface but in their heart, they're not really. And it's more out of spite than anything else. They just want to be right, and persuade others into their way of thinking. People can never really change, that opens happens in the movies."

 

"I know," she murmurs, looking down at the woman for a while. The woman looks tired and she's got all that blood flowing from her mouth. Clara reaches to gently touch the woman's bruised lips. "You can't change anyone whenever they decide that's the way they're going to be. But look at me; just the other week I would have saved this woman from you and now I've led her to her slaughter."

 

"If you want to know my opinion? I think you wanted to save Amy because you were expected to. This doctor, your family and friends have always hoped for the best with you. They've told you to save everyone and you've done that because of what you've lost. Grief can change everything. But saving people like this woman won't bring your mother back; it makes it more likely that an innocent like her dies. You heard your boyfriend talk about shooting the enemy every day and he became wiser from it. I expect that you never asked him what it felt like to shoot someone in the head. But I guarantee he would lie about how good it can feel. It wouldn't be as strong as it is for me, no. But there would have been a spark, that most people deny. I'm helping you accept yours and expand it; I have a feeling that the doctor forced you to see some terrible things. If you don't embrace them and accept the pleasure that comes with that feeling, the memories are going to bite at you forever until you lose your temper and do something stupid and impulsive - without me there to guide you."

 

Of course he's right. She swallows and she stares at him when he finishes. "Do you think I was made to do this?" she asks him quite seriously. For once her question isn't cynical. "That I've just been repressing everything."

 

He nods, "Just like your boyfriend would have PTSD."

 

"I want the knife back," she breathes softly. He gives it to her in a heartbeat, transfixed.

 

She takes it carefully, looking at him, making sure she has his attention. And then she's moving to the woman. "I knew you were a criminal as soon as I saw you," she murmurs. "And I might be one too, but I'm going to get rid of as many of the people like you in this world that I can." Something she read in a book depicted what she does next - which is slowly cutting a long line across her neck that's deep and slices through one of the larger veins. It's different than stabbing her because everything cascades out and the blood bubbles from the cut like the woman's trying to scream or breathe. Though what Clara doesn't notice is that she's now covered in just blood - and it's splattered all over her because of how fast it's spurting out.

 

He's watching her having always known that she was capable of this. Even so, it makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention and his cock harden as she slices the woman's throat open. He gets behind Clara and kisses her neck, tasting the blood that's landed there. "You've ruined your dress." he whispers.

 

She drops the knife, leaning back against him. "What a pity," she whispers back.

 

"I'm proud of you" he mutters against her skin, briefly glancing back at the woman who's bleeding to death.

 

Right now she feels numb - the burning sensation he spoke of is nowhere in sight, but her heart is beating so wildly that she isn't sure she cares. "Is she pretty to you now?" she asks him, still staring at the woman.

 

"She was never that pretty, but she does look much better now." he decides, moving his hand over her throat and running his fingers through the blood.

 

The fact that her breathing is so shallow makes her feel strange. She stares blankly at the woman, instead of crying. "I think my world is exploding and I don't know if it's in fire or if it's in black ink."

 

"This is only the beginning," he promises and his hand is moving under her blood stained dress.His fingers are in her knickers but he's ready to pull them away if she asks him to. He slips two fingers inside of her pussy and moans in response to the wetness that he finds there.

 

At first she's going to tell him no but there's something that presses her forward and her gaze pulls from the woman to him. She makes a soft moaning sound as his fingers enter her.

 

His eyes lock with hers and he feels like he could cum just by watching her moan from his touch. "One day I'm going to fuck you and it's gonna be a revelation. You'll never feel so alive as when I'm inside you and we're joined; both our bodies and souls." He slowly thrusts his fingers in and out of her, his thumb gently rubbing her clit. She moans a bit louder at his words, letting her fingers slip down to start gently stroking his cock. After all, he's already hard.

 

"I want to wait," she whispers, as her fingers slowly slide up and down his shaft. "Because the longer we wait ... the more satisfying it's going to be. Not because I'm scared anymore." Her strokes are all teasing, and she knows it, she searches his gaze.

 

There's blood on her hand when she moves them over his cock. He thinks about how he's corrupted her to the point that she's beginning to get off from the kill. It makes him wonder when she'll let him take her virginity; maybe after a much bigger slaughter. Maybe they could get a couple of victims next time, he wants to know just what they're capable of as a team. "You just love to torment me," he pants, hips bucking against her as his fingers continue to play with her pussy.

 

"Is that a crime?" She asks him, lips soon moving to his roughly as she starts to firmly stroke him. If killing didn't turn her on - he does. He's so incredibly toxic that she can't help but be attracted to him. She wouldn't have been able to do any of this if he hadn't been around - but now that he is, now that he's teaching her, she's going to do everything she can to be what he wants. Her obsession over him - she decides - is different than his Jean's because its more than just a sweet crush. This is passion and lust - she's felt it since they met.

 

Patrick kisses her back deeply, his tongue moving against hers as if he wants to eat her face. She's never been this eager before; it's like all the lust she's been consuming has come to the surface. She's killed again and he's been there for her, urging her on and telling her that he wants her, needs her and is proud of how far she's come. "Clara, why is it that you're so wet?" he purrs against her lips, needing her to tell him in her own words.  Then he's moaning again because her hand is moving faster.

 

How is she really supposed to know? But she'll tell him what she can manage. She presses against him, fingers slipping down to start caressing his sac. "Because I want you," she murmurs. "Because I've always wanted you." She kisses him again. "And because of her," she's referring to the woman. "Killing her ... made me realise I can do anything. And there's something about that ..." but it's mostly just him.

 

He doesn't mean to make her think about it too much. Some things are just impossible to explain and these feelings are completely new to her. "That's the beginning of the warmth I told you about, the revelation," he mutters. "You can do anything, you're fully capable." He gives himself over to her, getting lost in the feeling of what she's become and how badly they seem to want each other.

 

After that she goes to press her lips against his again, making a moan against his lips. She starts to stroke him very firmly, starting to move her own hips so she can rock herself against his fingers.

 

"Such a good girl" he pants as he bucks into her hand. He's getting close now. She looks so beautiful, lost in the moment with him. "Make me cum, make daddy cum."

 

She plans on it. She starts to moan louder for him, and she starts to stroke him as fast as she can. "Cum for me, my king," she whispers, moaning into his ear. "My God. "

 

"My Clara," he groans. He's only ever called himself a God in his own head and hearing someone say it out loud is the last straw for him. She worships him and the seed has been sown for him to persuade her into anything. She'll be a slave to his touch and his will. He's collapsing against her, spilling his cum over her hands and staring at her breathlessly.

 

The fact that she's gotten him to cum is empowering and it's what causes her to orgasm as well. Her moan is loud and sharp and when they're both breathless and staring, she licks his release off of her hand before cupping his cheek. "Always yours," she tells him. The words are said with a promise but are made from her lustful intentions rather than fact.

 

He mirrors her actions by licking his fingers before wiping the remaining cum onto her face. "Yes you are, Mrs. Bateman," he agrees.

 

"Am I allowed to call your mother stupid for actually believing that we were married?" she asks, smiling at him softly.

 

"But that would mean doubting your abilities as an actress," he reasons playfully.

 

"Oh, and believe me I am an amazing actress," she moves to wrap her arms around his neck, lips pressing to his again.

 

He kisses back chastely. "You'll never have to act around me again." But this time his tone is deadly serious.

 

"I won't," she promises, immediate fear sinking in. "I haven't been."

 

He steps away from her, feeling like this is the natural end to whatever had just happened between them. He doesn't think he'll be able to keep his self control if she turns out to be lying to him. He's so good at reading people; at identifying true killers. He's so sure that she's giving in to the darkness and the hint of doubt makes him want to throw up. "I'm never going to lie to you."

 


	9. Chapter 9

The next morning Patrick throws on yesterday's clothes and gets the chainsaw out from under the floorboards. He can't think of a better way to wake Clara up after the night they'd had. He starts work on cutting up Maria's body, starting with her feet. She wakes up to the sound of metal against bone and it definitely startles her at first. She'd hoped to get shaken awake or maybe even woken up with breakfast, not this, but she groans and goes to wrap herself up in the blanket despite her distaste.

 

"Morning," he yells over the noise of the chainsaw, noting that she’s awake. "Do you want a go?"

 

She shakes her head. "No thank you," she groans loudly, wrapping up tighter in the blanket for a moment. He snorts at that and carries on with his work. She knows where the snacks are if she wants to grab some breakfast. Clara attempts to go back to sleep, but when that doesn't work she forces herself to stand up and go get something to eat. She looks over at him cutting up the body briefly before curling back up on the mattress with her food, going to fetch a book to read as she eats.

 

He stops for a minute, puts the chainsaw down. "Throw me over an apple would you?"

 

A glare plasters itself on her face for a moment, she’s just gotten settled. She gives in anyway, stands up to get an apple and she walks over to hand it to him. "Here you go."

 

“Where did that custom ever come from - where you bring an apple to school for your teacher?" he asks thoughtfully before he takes a bite into it.

 

"No idea, but I'm normally the one having the apples brought to me."

 

“You're probably sick of them all by now then. No more apples. No more fruit. We've gotta balance out your diet."

 

She goes to take the apple she gave him away, taking a bite out of it and then handing it back. "Don't tell me what I can and can't have."

 

"Oh," He raises an eyebrow smugly. "Well if you're sure. But I was gonna offer off to cook you dinner."

 

"I think you still should do that," she smiles, moving to kiss his cheek. " Thank you. "

 

"You can have a bath at my place and get dressed up there."

 

"Wait - you're taking me to your apartment?"

 

"As long as you're ok with that." He figures he can't say or do anything else to shock her anymore. So he might as well show her his place and see what she thinks of it. He wants to have a comfortable evening because he has a busy day at work later.

 

"Of course, I am. I'm more than okay with it," she says, going to hug him tightly despite the chainsaw and the blood.

 

He's taken aback when she squeezes her arms around him. "Uh, you're welcome" he chokes out before wiping his bloody hands on her cheeks. "You deserve it."

 

She moves her arms away to smile at him softly. "Really?"

 

"I hope so. I need to get on with getting ready of this though," His attention turns back to the body. "I've got work in a few hours."

 

"Okay, I'll leave you be." She's then going to move back to the mattress, reading again.

 

Within the hour he's chopped her body up into little pieces and put all the parts into a black bag. Clara hasn't looked up from her book. "What's got you hooked?"

 

"Nothing really," she murmurs, looking up from it and marking the page. It's one of the only romance novels that she thinks he missed.

 

"You haven't looked up once in the last half an hour."

 

Her cheeks turn a bit warm. "At least you've been paying attention ... It's just this book about this girl who is having an affair with this guy who is about to get married to her best friend. I mean that's the basic plot."

 

"So it's a soap opera."

 

"Basically, yes. Except I think he's probably going to break up with both of them because he's just turned on by the idea of lying. Plus he takes out all of his anger on the girl who he isn't getting married to."

 

"I see. And what do you think he should do?" he mutters, trying desperately to stay mildly interested.

 

"He should just kill the girl he's hitting all of the time and marry the one so that he can get away with it. I mean it'd make for a good story."

 

"Yes, it would. Trouble is, he's probably hitting the other girl because he loves her so much. He'll be miserable with his wife."

 

"Why would he hit her if he loves her?"

 

“Most probably, he hates that he can't let her go. So he takes it out on her."

 

"Well then maybe he should just leave the one girl if he loves her so much."

 

"It's never as simple as that, Clara. Even in literature. The wife might have a ton of money, plus do they have any children?" he proposes, grabbing his coat to leave with yesterday's remains.

 

She goes to get up from the mattress, wrapping the blanket around herself since she still hasn't changed clothes. "No, they're not even married yet. They're just together and he's pretending to love her and he hits the other girl all of the time - are you leaving?"

 

"Oh, just leave the fiancee then. I don't understand the problem. Uh yeah, gotta get rid of our friend from last night. Then i've got to get changed and ready for the office."

 

"I'll see you later, then, yeah?"

 

"I'll come here at about six, okay? Just put on some clean clothes. Next time, you can help me deal with the body."

 

"Okay, have a good day at work - try not to get too stressed."

 

"When am I ever stressed?" he laughs before kissing her cheek and disappearing out of the door.

 

She smiles and watches him go before settling back down with her book. Eventually, she gets changed into some clean clothes - uses some of the water to wash whatever she can of the blood off herself so she can at least be seen in public when he takes her to his apartment.

 

His day at work is uneventful. Everything's getting repetitive and that's one of the reasons why he’s invited Clara to his house. There's no reason why she won't feel at home there now. It's much more comfortable than the cold floor of the warehouse. After he returns home, he decides to change his clothes into something more casual. He's very rarely seen in a pair of jeans but a conquest of his had once that that suited him and made his arse look good. He doesn't put as much gel in his hair and tries to act more casual as he leaves the building to go and meet with Clara. Very few men could pull of this look that didn't scream professional, mysterious business man.

 

"Mrs. Bateman?"

 

When it's six, she's waiting by the exit of the warehouse for him, she smiles at him whenever she sees what he's wearing. For once he looks normal … good normal. "I think you should wear jeans more often, Mr. Bateman," she says, grinning widely. "You might actually end up looking like a normal man."

 

"You mean I don't look like an absolute idiot?" he checks. He'd presumed that she'd laugh at him and it would make her feel good to watch him humiliate himself in front of her. "I feel like I'm wearing a clown suit or something, but this is the kind of thing that your boyfriend was wearing - ."

 

"Oh no - he never wore jeans. He had a thing for pink shirts, though - that was embarrassing."

 

"Well I'd never be seen dead in one of those." he sniggers.

 

"Good. Now see, The Doctor - he wore a purple tweed coat and a button-up shirt, and a waistcoat and a bowtie. And he had a lovely watch. Plus he had these gold chain like things that he'd wear on the waistcoat sometimes. And he'd always wear a bowtie. No matter what. If he wasn't wearing it you'd know something was wrong."

 

"Sounds like you fancied him."

 

"No, we were just friends."

 

"He sounds very stylish, what was he a doctor of, exactly?"

 

"Time."

 

He links his arm with hers, walking her to his place. "Have you ever had a normal friend?"

 

"Sure I have. I mean, in Uni the girl I roomed with was pretty normal. We were friends."

 

“Apart from that night when you shared a drunken kiss, yeah?"

 

"Never happened."

 

“Clara, why do you have to ruin the mental image?" he pouts, already in a much better mood now that he's in her company. He's really hoping that the evening goes to plan.

 

“Okay, sorry - yes, of course, we shared a drunken kiss and explored our lesbian curiosities. Better?"

 

"I knew it." He leads her up to his front door and waits for her to comment on the place as he lets her in.

 

She enters his home, looking about at everything with a sort of fascination. For a little while she just looks around. His home is decorated with a simple colour scheme, he has a very specific setup for how the rooms flow into each other. The presence of white counteracts what would normally be related to him, and she thinks he may like it that way. Perhaps there is something comforting in being enveloped in purity when all he knows is darkness. He’s got paintings hung up, and they are interesting, she supposes. His television seems state of the art - but nothing catches her eyes like the grand piano that’s situated just by his dining room and living area. It’s easy to pretend she’s interested in the rest of his things, but she’s soon moving over to the grand piano instead of anywhere else. Her fingers drift over it briefly before she realises that she’s being rude.

 

"You already know what I'm going to say," she murmurs. "But it's beautiful, Patrick."

 

He enjoys watching her face as she looks around but at the same time it feels odd. He's never had to share this space with anyone else before. Everything is white, clean and he's sure that some parts of the house have never even been touched. "No one else has ever been in here."

 

“No one?" She asks, looking over at him. "How do you manage that?"

 

"I've used that warehouse a lot," he shrugs before he brushes his fingers over the piano keys. "Do you play?"

 

"Only a couple of songs - nothing all that intricate. Do you?"

 

"No. I just like how it looks."

 

"So you've got a grand piano that you don't even play?"

 

"It makes the house seem....homely."

 

"I don’t think that’s a word,” she smiles at him gently before moving on. “What's your favourite part of the house?"

 

"Probably the gym. It's just more part of my routine than anything else."

 

"My flat was a lot smaller than this."

 

He takes hold of her hand again and leads her to the bathroom. "I got you a dress, it's on the radiator. I better get started with the dinner."

 

She follows him, looking around as he leads her to the bathroom. It's one of the most fancy bathrooms she's ever seen. "You must make a lot of money," she murmurs.

 

"I give a lot away to charity" he insists suddenly, his voice defensive. This was what he was afraid of; more judging.

 

"It's okay if you don't - hell, I wouldn't."

 

"I don't want you to treat me any differently because I have money."

 

"You think I'm going to?"

 

"Sluts on the street tend to see me as a snob and make wise cracks. Of course, I end up paying them back by murdering them. But the principle still stands."

 

She just smiles and shakes her head at him, "Patrick Bateman, you are one of the silliest men I've ever met. Even if you only had a penny to your name, I'd think of you the same way I do now."

 

"Maybe, but you wouldn't get to use that bath." he winks at her before planting a kiss on her lips. He doesn't believe that what she's saying is strictly true, but he's trying his best to see the positive side of everything that happens tonight and not get bored of her company.

 

She kisses back gently before smiling up at him. "True, now go - so I can have a wash and you can get dinner ready," she moves to kiss him again before pulling away.

 

“Yes Mrs." he grins before making his way to the kitchen.

 

She watches him go before she moves to start her bath. She's not been this happy for a very long time - and she isn't quite sure why she is happy. Just the other night she killed a woman on her own accord ... and she liked it. But he's won her over the whole way and this is just furthering her resolve to continue on. The bath water smells like vanilla, and she sinks into it, closing her eyes and relaxing a bit as she feels the blood releasing from her skin. It almost feels like a rebirth to her. Because as soon as this layer of blood is gone she’s going to be a new person.

 

In the living room, Patrick’s turned on his stereo and the 80s music blares out through his home as he prepares stir fry for them both. He pictures Clara in the bath, it’s a stunning picture to have in his head. For a moment he wonders if she’s using the faucet of the bath to masturbate, and if she is he imagines she’ll be thinking about him or the night before. These thoughts are strung directly with his hopes that she likes the dress he's picked out for her. His assistant had bought it but he'd approved the dress and taken it home. Then he’s back to cooking and listening to his music as if he’d not picked through his thoughts just the moment before.

 

Back in the bathroom, Clara is just leaving the tub. In her opinion, the dress is lovely - everything he's gotten her has been. At first, though, she has to admit that she's wondering if he just likes to dress her up. Maybe she’s a doll to him, a toy, she isn’t sure yet. She pulls the dress on, lets her fingers drift over the fabric. She lets her hair dry a bit, styling it best she can. She supposes she doesn't need makeup - and it isn't like she's brought any with her. For a while, she stares at herself in the mirror. The face that stares back isn't her own. She wonders, briefly, who Clara Oswald is anymore - and she wonders if she even really exists. But she forces herself to move away after standing there for far too long. She cleans up the bathroom - folds her clothing and sets the articles in a nice little spot. She then goes to peek out at him cooking, smiling softly as she stands there and watches for a bit.

 

The current song playing on his stereo is “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” by: Tears for Fears. He finds himself singing along, even dancing a little, and when he turns to start serving the food he sees her standing by the door. "Sorry,” he murmurs, and he’s not exactly embarrassed, but he fakes it. “I'm a shit singer." He places the plates out on the table, meticulously making sure everything is set right.

 

"Actually, I think you're quite good," she murmurs, starting to move toward him, her arms crossed. "Maybe you should go try out for The Voice or something."

 

"Are we gonna sing a duet about a massacre?"

 

"Might as well, something from Sweeney Todd, maybe."

 

Ah, the butcher. "I'm not that enthused about about eating the bodies, but I could give it another try," he answers and he's not joking. He holds out her chair for her to sit down.

 

She sits down and she looks up at him after. "You've eaten people before?"

 

"Not in their entirety. Just a bit of flesh here and there." he reasons with a shrug as he sits down opposite her.

 

"Good for you, then," she shoves it off - and it's strange how easily she can talk about it now. She gazes down at the food, then her gaze moves to his. "So far, it looks like you may be an excellent chef - along with a perfect interior decorator."

 

"I was hoping for a perfect date," he smiles before tucking in to his food.

 

She starts to eat after him, and if all she has to do is what they did last night to get this again? She's definitely not saying no to it.

 

"Anything else you wanna know?"

 

"I feel like you'll tell me sooner or later - is 80s music your favourite?"

 

"Pretty much yeah. I like all the cheesy pop music."

 

"I like most anything - except rap, and country."

 

"You don't like Taylor Swift? Although she's mostly pop now."

 

"No, in fact, I think her music is awful. I like Blank Space, that's one of the only good songs, though. Shake It Off gets on my nerves. Plus, I heard she isn't even really that nice."

 

"I try not to let my opinion of a person affect my enjoyment of their music. I wouldn't be surprised if she murders her next boyfriend in a music video."

 

"Maybe she's actually a lesbian and she just tries to make it look like she's straight or something."

 

"You might be onto something there," he laughs openly.

 

She grins, taking another forkful of food before moving on. "Top three artists, go."

 

"Whitney, Madonna, Phil Collins"

 

"You really do like cheesy pop music," she laughs, but she's genuinely not judging him at all.

 

"I like the lyrics. The poetry. I just can't really relate to those kinds of songs."

 

"I like people who are mostly unknown, but I like a lot of bands."

 

"I'd like to hear you play my piano"

 

She goes to wipe of her mouth and hands, folding the napkin nearly after and setting it beside her plate. "Alright," she's then standing up from the table and going over to his piano. "But you have to keep eating and you can't watch - just listen."

 

"It's a deal," he mutters, watching her arse as she walks away.

 

She sits at his piano very properly and she starts to brush her fingers over the keys to get acquainted with it. She's then starting to play a song that she did for a competition back in Year 10, she got third place. After that she decided to quit piano, but she still kept practising this song so it'd be perfect.

 

He listens carefully, letting the music flow through him and help him relax. The food's turned out well and now he's just hungry to feel her skin or his. "Very good."

 

Once the song finishes, she moves back over to the table, sitting down across from him again. "Its one of the only ones I still remember. I lost during a competition when I played it - so I had to make up for it and learn it perfect. You ever feel like that? Where you just have to do it better than anyone else to prove everyone wrong?"

 

"Yes, at most things actually" he admits. He's always been in competition with his brother, since they were very young. He wouldn't even own such a nice house if it didn't represent his success. "Everyone is constantly competing with each other in life; for jobs and partners and money."

 

"I hate it," she states blandly. "I mean, what's the point? In the end we're all people and we just want basic needs like water, food, and shelter."

 

"Good thing you don't have to worry about any of that from now on then," he observes. He'll make sure that she never goes without any of those things.

 

"Good thing," she repeats, she's finished with her food by now, and she's simply trying to have a conversation with him that's revealing. "Patrick. If you had to pick one thing to be, I mean if you weren't an investment banker, what would you be? What would you do?"

 

"Some other job where I really don't have to do much," he replied immediately, before he really gives himself a chance to think about it. Generally people looked for jobs that were to do with their hobbies. His only interests were pop music, old movies, porn and serial killers. "Maybe I could be a pornstar," he teases.

 

"Sounds perfect," she grins, faking amusement. "Then you'd have lots of money and lots of women sucking your cock - just like now but without all of the paperwork." Though whenever she says things like this as jokes, she feels a twinge of jealousy - like maybe she should be the only one who gets to touch him. Not that he'd allow that, but she can dream.

 

"I think I'd enjoy that much more than my current job, in that case. I'm presuming they would also all be alive and willing. So there's a couple of little differences." He likes when she uses words like cock. Maybe it's because she's virgin and yes she's sucked him off but she doesn't know how it can feel inside her. She's missing out on so much.

 

“Mm, but I don't think it would be as fun for you anymore. But maybe you wouldn't have to kill people if you were a pornstar." She starts to sip at her drink, and she keeps looking over him and his house. The fact that she's been brought here speaks volumes to her and it's like each word they say to each other makes her realise it more and more. Maybe he's starting to actually trust her.

 

"Did you go to different versions of reality, when you travelled in space with your doctor?" he asks. He finds what he knows about their relationship interesting. She had basically been running away from her boring life with Danny to explore new things with a man she didn't really know that well - probably as well as she knew him.

 

"Yes, but most of the time the planets we went to just seemed like alternate realities all in their own. Parallel universes are tricky - I wasn't one for them. Especially when it was described to me that my mum could turn up in one," she tells him. She trusts him with this information because he'll sound crazy if he tells anyone else. And who else does he really have to tell?

 

"Or Danny - or me - anyone you've known. They could be completely different people. It sounds scary."

 

"Or that," she murmurs. "This one time - we went to have cocktails on the moon. And that - that was my favourite trip I think."

 

"I hope you didn't get horribly drunk and end up in the bath of a hotel with someone, feeling sorry for yourself. That was a real drag when it happened to me."

 

"Oh, I remember that night far different from how you do," she smiles. "No, I ended up coming home the next day because I had work."

 

"Those kids will have a new teacher now. They'll be fine."

 

"It's strange not having to work every single day - have they said anything on the news about my disappearance?"

 

He regards her carefully, "Are you sure you want to know?"

 

"Yes," she says. She has a feeling they already think she's dead. Maybe they said she committed suicide because of her grief.

 

"The police are convinced that you ran away, to start a new life or be anywhere but near grieving relatives. Apparently some of the kids tried to speak to them about this - doctor - and the general assumption is that you ran off to be with him."

 

Maybe she didn't want to know, after all. "Well that's shallow."

 

"Your father's pretty sure that you're dead though. He's trying to keep the investigation going, but there isn't any evidence to lead them anywhere."

 

"Then he'd just have nan," and her stepmother, but she hates her so she isn't even worth mentioning.

 

Patrick picks up their dirty plates and puts them in the sink. He rolls up his sleeves and does the washing up. "Do you see him, when you look at me; I mean the Doctor."

 

"Sometimes," she murmurs, moving out of her seat so she can watch him, she still stands near the table. "At first, yes, but now I'm getting better at seeing the differences ... Do you see her when you look at me?"

 

She doesn't clarity if those differences are positive or negative - so they're probably a bit of both. He wants to ask him how she really felt about the Doctor, but maybe it's better to just put it in the past and move on. Since the hotel he'd been able to make the clear distinctions between the two women, and he was more interested in learning more about Miss Oswald. "No, not anymore."

 

"I stopped seeing you as him as soon as we were at that hotel. I never saw your personality like his, but I kept seeing his face. Your sadness ... was and is, very different than his. That's how I forced myself to accept the truth."

 

He dries his hands on a tea-towel and walks over to her, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "It was so embarrassing. I literally wanted to die."

 

"Why was it embarrassing? I didn't think it was."

 

"I'm never that honest with anyone and I felt vulnerable and weak; like one of my victims."

 

For a moment she sees him as that again, and she connects gazes with him. "I suppose, just for a few minutes, you were my victim."

 

"Now we can bring out the worst in each other."

 

"Not that being upset is ever a bad thing."

 

"Isn't it?"

 

“No," she whispers. "Everyone's allowed to be upset - especially men who have seen as much as you have."

 

"And is that the truth you found out, that I really did have a heart?" he frowns.

 

She looks away for a moment. "You made me kiss that woman, you made me eat her out. You forced me into killing her and you made me into a criminal. I'm starting to like it now, we both know that, but did you think I'd see you as having a heart after making me do things like touch myself in front of you and making me suck you off? Because force doesn't equal love and caring in my book."

 

"Well I probably didn't care either way at that point. I wanted to kill you and throw away your body along with Amy's. That night changed us both."

 

"Why did you decide to keep me?"

 

“Because I saw someone who looked like she could kill - and I thought that I could connect with you in a way I never have with anyone else before."

 

“Did we connect in the way you wanted?"

 

Patrick turns the stereo off and clears everything else off of the table. "I brought you here, didn't I?" he replies, brushing past her and then taking her by the hand to lead the way to the bedroom.

 


	10. Chapter 10

There’s a TV hanging on the wall in his bedroom. He’s staring at it, weighing up his options. Normal dates include things like dinner and a movie. So maybe that's what's missing, why this date is feeling a bit empty. He pats on the space next to him. "Do you want to watch a film?"

 

"Sure, whatever you want," there’s a soft smile on her face. The air feels a bit awkward and stiff as she sits down beside him. He grabs the remote to turn the TV on and flicks it on to a film channel. Lying back on the bed, he wills himself not to fall asleep in the middle of what looks like a rom-com like the one in the book Clara's been reading. She’s settling next to him, watching the movie somewhat intently. It's not the best - she'd rather be watching some sort of thriller - but she doesn't say anything, instead she makes the most of the moment. Though every moment she moves about. And notices, because his eyes are on her more than the movie and she's fidgeting every now and then.

 

"You can turn it over if you want." At least he pays attention. She fetches the remote and starts to flip through channels until she finds something that looks exciting. She settles down again, the remote between them.

 

"This is your night, you should spend it however you want to."

 

"I thought it was our night," she muses.

 

He doesn't say anything to that, watching the movie car chase happening before his eyes. She moves to take his hand and starts to watch the movie too. But after a while, she feels a bit uncomfortable, so she breaks it with a question. "Have you ever wanted to be happy?"

 

"For my brother, happiness is getting high. For my ex, happiness is the thought of getting married and bringing lots of mini Patricks into the world. Can you imagine?"

 

"No, I couldn't," she looks over at him. "But you, Patrick, have you ever wanted happiness? Not your ex, not your brother - I couldn't care less about them - you."

 

"I'm pretty content right now. But the closest I’ve been to happy is when you slashed at that woman's throat."

 

"And that's your happiness?" She asks, continuing to watch him.

 

His gaze never moves away from the TV. "Being proud of someone you lo - like, I’d say that brings out a happiness; yes."

 

Her heart stops, and she isn't sure if she just made up the slip or not, but she swears he almost said that he loves her. "Good point," she murmurs. "But you still haven't answered my question."

 

“People like me never get a happy ending."

 

"You could get one."

 

He looks at her incredulously, "How?"

 

"By realising that there's no one around like you."

 

He reaches out and takes hold of her neck, running his thumb across to feel her pulse. "And you, you're nothing like me?"

 

"I might be like you," she breathes. "But I'm not you, am I? I'm nothing like Patrick Bateman."

 

"No one ever could be. I'm a God." he smiles cynically. For a moment his grip tightens around her neck and he enjoys seeing her struggle to breathe. Though the choking doesn't even hurt, it's just a bit uncomfortable. Then his hands let go of her neck and they're moving to her breasts, pinching her nipples through the material of her dress. Her breathing gets shallow even though she should be gasping for air.

 

"You're a God," she repeats. "And everyone should know."

 

He's kissing her neck, mouth open and wanting to feel every part of her. "And you'll be my Goddess and let me worship your body as if it was the last on Earth," he purrs into her ear as he pins her to the bed beneath him. She looks up at him with wide eyes. Her virginity is all she has left of her innocence.

 

"Do you love me?" She asks.

 

He's not sure he could ever feel an emotion as pure as love, but his infatuation with her is beginning to give him doubts. "If you want me to."

 

That's not the answer she's looking for - but it's the only one that she thinks he'll ever be able to give. "I need you to."

 

"Sit up" he orders so that he can pull her dress over her head. If she wants this to mean something to tell, he at least wants to do it properly. They had so many clothes in the way. He slides off of the bed to undress himself, wondering what thoughts are going through her mind. He wants her to give her whole being over to him; to drain everything out of her mind and soul so that she's merely an extension of his existence. The same entity.

 

She sits up as he commands, letting her dress be taken away from her. Nervous, her heart pounds. Though she isn't sure if it is so much nerves anymore. Ever since that night in the hotel, since she saw his weakest point - the person who was at the very centre of Patrick Bateman - she's been decided. There's no one else for her anymore, though it hurts to know he's won, that she's so easily given in to the man she once only wanted to run from. It wasn't even that long ago when she thought him a monster, (she still does, but he's made her one too).

 

His body is the most interesting thing to her now. She used to know every single centimetre of the Doctor, but she wants to know every millimetre of Patrick. Words escape her when she wants them most to come, but she's watching him with a curiosity and wonder that she's never allowed herself to before.

 

Clara sees perfection in every aspect of him, but she knows that underneath he's anything other than perfect.

 

It feels strange for them both to be naked in his own bedroom, not the warehouse in the midst of a murder. But he’s been holding back so long, stopping himself from emerging into his fantasies and grabbing her by the waist to force himself inside her. He sits on the bed beside her and just lets his eyes take in the sight of every piece of of flesh. He takes hold of her hand and feels the joints between every bone of her fingers. He can hear her heavy breathing and he's never seen someone look so alive while he didn't have a knife against their throat. He concentrates on what would be her wedding ring finger, holding it up to his mouth and planting quick kisses on it. "I never got you a ring, Mrs Bateman," he chuckles but his eyes are dark and then he's sucking the digit into his mouth; when he supposes that normally he'd just cut the thing off.

 

If her heart wasn't fluttering before it is whenever he takes her hand. She never stops staring at him, because he's doing everything slow. Normally their passion is quick and intense ... but this is something that warms her from head to toe and makes it hard for her to hold back. When he points out the missing ring, she slowly smiles. "No, you didn't. Maybe you'll have to change that," she says - her voice as thick as the air around them. At first she was afraid that having sex with him would mean being tied up, cold, hungry, with no other alternative. But this is deliciously dark, and his eyes are what really turn her on, because she knows there's no turning back.

 

His hands move down to her breasts and he's stroking the hard nubs with his fingers. Part of him wishes that he had his knife on him and he could just chop them off and let the blood splash over his face. The image in his head seems to be enough though, because he's not sure how she'd feel about him using a knife at this point. Then he's beginning to wonder why he even cares what she's feeling at all. He has to close his eyes and just concentrate on the feeling of her tit in his mouth as he begins to lick and suck at it.

 

She's wondering what he's thinking, but as soon as his mouth is over her nipple her thoughts shut off. It's something primal, maybe, but she's moaning and pressing closer to him. Though her moan is soft and timid and she's clearly trying to control it. Her hands move to push through his hair, fingers toying with it. The thought of him worshipping her body like this makes her nipples even harder than they were and she grips at his hair.

 

He enjoys the feeling of her fingers in his hair but wishes that she'd pull on it harder. He bites down on her breast enough that it'll hurt but he doesn't want to bruise her too much. This is all about taking away her innocence in small steps, helping her lose control before she realises that she's even started to fully let go. "Relax," he whispers so quietly that he's not sure if it's really just inside his head.

 

She pulls on his hair roughly whenever he bites down, but he tells her to relax and so she settles against him. The whisper is something that she just barely hears. "Teach me how," she murmurs back, because her stomach's all in knots.

 

He looks up at her and doesn't move for a moment. Her focus has to be purely on his words. "You and me are right here, in this moment. There's no one watching or judging. This is just about connection and feeling. Be more natural, focus on taste and scent and the words you want to say, feelings you want to express. Live in the moment."

 

Her breath hitches for a moment at his words. The relaxation slowly takes hold and she moves to press her lips to his, it's the only way she can show him and tell him; you win.

 

He's smiling against her lips and then he kisses her back passionately; slowly and deeply. It wouldn't be long now until she was truly, completely his.

 

Her hands move to settle on either side of his neck, thumbs over his jawline. She keeps kissing him, lips parting against his so she can let out a soft sound that's purely of pleasure. It isn't strained, or forced. And she thinks - really thinks - she may be close to loving him.

 

He's not sure how long they're kissing for before his hand slips down to her pussy, but he's panting and her eyes are dark and full of want. He slips one, two, three fingers inside her and begins to use her juices as lubricant to stretch her open.

 

When he pushes his fingers into her, she finds herself tipping her head back. She brings it forward so he can press her forehead to his and she starts to rock her hips to feel his fingers against her.

 

"How do you feel?" he asks, moving her chin up to look at her face. He doesn't like not being able to see her reaction. His fingers penetrate deep inside her and his cock is aching for attention, to fuck this Goddess.

 

Her gaze moves to meet his. "I feel ... this burning," she breathes, moaning at how deep his fingers go. "And it just keeps getting more and more intense - but it doesn't feel bad ... it feels good. I feel good. " She can't help the moan that ends her sentence.

 

He listens to her moans for a few seconds more, just taking in the genuine reaction that he's provoking from her. He's not forcing her into this. She wants him and she believes him to be her God. "It's about to get even better." he promises, sure that she's ready now. His fingers slip out of her and his cock moves against her entrance, the head teasing her pussy lips. "I'm going to fuck you."

 

There's the initial fear of him being near her like that, and his words hold something in them that makes her not sure anymore. But she's given herself over and she wants him - so she looks up at him, hand reaching to cup his cheek. She pushes herself a bit closer to him.

 

That's more than another permission for him to settle himself between her legs and finally thrust inside her. He thinks that she might be scared at this point but after all the effort of a build up and trying to calm her, he's struggling to make himself care. After all that she's seen him do, it seems ridiculous for her to panic. He's protecting her from other men that could break her heart and get themselves killed. He's doing her a favour.

 

The feeling is different than what she thinks it'll be. The pain is sharp and ripping, it feels like a knife being driven into her, and everything explodes. She doesn't scream - but her moan is pained, and she moves her hands to the blankets, gripping onto them. It hurts, but after a little while - it isn't so bad.

 

He watches her face as he begins his thrusts and he can tell when the pain begins to slip away. He gives her a quick kiss of reassurance, before his pace becomes faster and he's rubbing at her clit as he pounds into her again and again.

 

Pretty soon, it stops hurting, and she's feeling a new kind of pleasure. Tears stain her cheeks because of how intense the pain had been at the beginning, but now she's not crying - she's moaning for him, letting her hips rock forward the smallest bit as he pounds into her. Hands reach up to start tugging at his hair instead of the sheets, and the mantra in her head says be more natural. Instinct tells her to force her body up, to grip onto him. And so instead of dealing with quick kisses, she crushes her lips to his. Things still hurt, her thighs are still numb, she can feel the little tiny trickle of blood from her broken hymen, but it doesn't matter to her - not right now when she's learning that maybe the pain isn't so bad.

 

She's been crying for him but now she's moaning. But he enjoys the crying more, the vision of seeing her submit to his every will. The whole thing's overwhelming her and he can tell by the passion she puts into their kiss that she's fully captivated by him. His thumb rubs at her clit as her cunt remains incredibly wet and tight around his cock. "You're mine Clara, you're mine," he growls against her lips.

 

Being owned never felt so good. The rough growl to his voice makes her shudder. Forever is something she might reply if this was pure love - but this is so much more, she she just moans in response, crying out, "Yes, Patrick." She wants to be the reason he cums now - for real. She wants to give him what he wants. Her head tips back a bit as a shudder moves up her body - and she isn't sure what it's from.

 

She's shivering, moaning and his words are urging him on. It's been too long and the look in her eyes says that she wants him to cum in that moment. He doesn't look away from her as his hips buck wildly and his climax takes hold.

 

She orgasms just before him, and it's something she's been holding in. She cries his name, clutches at him, and she keeps her eyes open, watching for his reactions.

 

He doesn't say anything after that, just watches her in the aftermath of her orgasm. There's a bond between them that she won't be able to break now. He has so many new ideas for what to do with her; but he'd rather keep her in the dark for now.

 

She's panting and she moves forward to press her lips to his, arms wrapped around him loosely. If anything she feels connected to him, and though she's lost a piece of herself, she can feel it being filled. Her explosion was white. Her aftermath is black. But all she can feel is the warmth of some sort of fire.

 

He kisses her back happily, pleased that she seems content with what they're done. "Worth the wait?"

 

"Definitely," she says, smiling softly. "Thank you, for being the one."

 

"I'll never stop being the one" he tells her and he feels a bit sick from how romantic that sounds.

 

She kisses him again at that, pulling away briefly to look up at him. There's an obsession that she's now developed for him - and she doesn't think it will go away.

 

"We're gonna be quite the team. London better look out." he grins. He's going to be the one to satisfy her, make her cry and eventually kill her. But he's hoping she'll want to murder some more people first.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This story contains graphic imagery and adult situations. Trigger warnings for this chapter include gore. Thank you for your continued support.

The next day isn’t strange or awkward. In fact, everything falls into place the way it should. His house is calm, something is new between them, and they've formed a bond that is going to be hard to ever break.  They have breakfast together and unsurprisingly, the conversation topic of choice swings to murder. Though, it’s Patrick who brings it up rather than Clara. And her mood shifts significantly even if she doesn’t say anything.

 

"Do you want to pick the next one?"

 

"You can, that way it's like an order. You picked first, I picked second, and now you're picking third," the statement is blatant, but she doesn’t feel like talking about that now. She stares at her eggs, pushes them around on her plate before properly eating them.

 

"And you won't hesitate to kill them even if we know nothing about about them?"

 

"I don't know," she murmurs. "I just like to know their stories, I think. Not knowing is boring."

 

He nods, "Okay."

 

"It's whatever you want."

 

Compliance has now been established in their relationship. While neither party cares much, one notices it more than the other. And it isn’t hard for him to act on it, to manipulate and stretch the submission as far as he can.

 

"You can stay here while I'm at work and then we'll make plans later tonight, yeah?"

 

"Sounds good," she smiles. For no reason, a thought flames up in her mind. One that causes panic. The breakfast food she’s had feels like it is going to come back up along with whatever she’d eaten the day before. His gaze holds that of knowing of his control, she’s feeling uncomfortable. He doesn’t care, but he doesn’t say that really. "Will I have to go back to the warehouse one day?" she asks, and it doesn’t take him by surprise but it’s an interesting question.

 

"To live?” he raises an eyebrow at her. “Not if things stay the way they are now."

 

"Thank you.”

 

Breakfast becomes a quiet affair. She eats, he drinks his water, and then he’s gone and getting ready for work. His routine is specific, worth pointing out only because of its complexity. Each time he goes to take a shower it takes him fifteen minutes. A quick shower, a face wash, a shave. Each piece of equipment he uses he knows the specific brand of, everything is expensive, and he can’t have anything less. He notes that she’s left her old clothes folded on the sink and he peers at them. They’re disgusting at this point - he’s glad that he’s gotten her a dress.

 

In the bedroom he dresses; suit Alan something (he’s too distracted to care right now), shoes A. Testoni, he guesses. Then he’s gone without much more than a goodbye to Clara, who’s sitting on his sofa, legs together and stretched out across it. At first he thinks what she would look like blonde, then he realises he doesn’t care. He thinks about her all day while he's at work. It's hard not to when he thinks about all the possibilities they could have for the evening, about the possibilities they could have for life. Everything seems endless for them, as it has always been endless for him. The time goes by slowly. Jean isn’t there so of course it screws up his whole day. His new secretary makes him have a heavy workload. He doesn’t do any of it right. He thinks he’s written ‘Cannibal’ all over one of the sheets he needed to fill out. Then he’s back at home, he thinks his secretary screamed at a picture she saw on one of the forms.

 

During the time he's been gone Clara’s cleaned; herself and the home. It starts with scrubbing away at her thighs in the shower, then turns into her going to wash off some of his sheets. She then makes the bed, as perfectly as she can, and she makes sure that everything is just as it was when she first saw it. She doesn't know what to wear - and she feels like wearing his clothing might make him angry, so she puts the dress he gave her the night before on. She does little things like dusting and cleaning the kitchen.

 

When she sees that it's almost time for him to return home, she pours them both drinks, and sets them on coasters on the table in front of the TV, (she doesn't think he'd like rings on his table). She sits there, sipping at her drink with some of his 80s music playing at a nice low level, and then he returns and she's moving over to him, kissing him briefly and the offering him his drink.

 

Madonna's _Like a Prayer_ is playing when he enters the house. He’s mildly impressed. Then he sees her in the kitchen, she's kissing him and he's kissing back softly. It's so domestic and normal; strange to him.

 

"Hi," she says smiling at him. If he's getting so much out of this, she supposes she'll get something too. "How was work?"

 

"Dull. I couldn't get back here quick enough."

 

"You could bring me with you to the office one day, you know?"

 

"Oh and what would we get up to there?" he teases, his hands wandering to land on her arse.

 

"Dunno, but I'm pretty small, I can fit into tight spaces rather comfortably," she's just barely moving closer to him, hands moving to his chest.

 

"Sounds like a good plan, maybe you could surprise me one day."

 

"Mm, I'll have to. After all, they won't question me being there."

 

"I doubt anyone will notice," he mutters.

 

"Unless I made them," she muses, then she's moving away from him.

 

"Just don't do anything too stupid."

 

"Never," she promises. "I cleaned today - didn't touch anything or go snooping around."

 

"There's nothing here worth keeping a secret." he shrugs, helping himself to his own drink. It feels odd to know that she's been walking around his home but it doesn't bother him as much as what he thought it would.

 

"But I still want you to know that I wouldn't," she murmurs. "Anyway, I'm glad you're home."

 

He finishes his drink, still stood up and watching her. "I'll set you up on my laptop and you can order some new clothes, if you like."

 

"I'm just happy with whatever you get me ..." but she hadn't realised how much she missed shopping. her outfits were often things that helped display her personality. For once she wants to actually surprise him with how she looks, have the ability to.

 

"Well I'll set you up a login and you can order what you want from tomorrow. Now though, we're gonna go for another little walk," he smiles, it stretches over his face. She thinks it holds a message of some sort of malice.

 

"I've found a new appreciation for walking, I think."

 

"Did you have dinner, or did you wanna grab some chips or something? Would make a change from last night."

 

"I didn't eat anything, but that's okay. I'm not really hungry anyway. Unless you want to -grab some chips I mean."

 

"I'm sure I'll find something," he mutters before taking her hand and leading her out of the house.

 

"Where are we going?"

 

"I've done this so many times, there isn't really a place I haven't covered. Where do you fancy going?"

 

"Somewhere nicer than last time, I think. Just as long as she isn't prettier than me."

 

"It's dark, all the nice places are closed. We could try the park?"

 

"You know best, my God.”

 

> _“My God.”_
> 
> _"I like that, always call me that when we're together, and when we have company."_

 

At least she’s paying attention to what he’s said. They go their romantic stroll in the park, paying close attention to anyone that passes by. She nuzzles against him every so often, looking about. She's decided she isn't very good at this, but that she could be far better. But he knows she’s making herself look far too suspicious and he wants to laugh at her but he knows she's trying, bless her. "What about her?" he whispers, nudging her in the right direction, to a woman he thinks is worth it.

 

"It's your choice, not mine."

 

"Okay, sweetheart,” he gives her a kiss on the cheek, before walking ahead to secure their prize. It doesn’t matter what she looks like to him, in fact he doesn’t really look at anything other than her arse and her breasts. Soon enough, he's forced a piece of cloth in her mouth and pulled her hoodie down to hide her face. He holds the knife against her neck as he brushes past Clara and gestures for her to lead the way to the warehouse. Everything is flawless and quick, though he knows it was much more intricate. His mind doesn’t let him process everything. She takes them toward the warehouse (as he prompted), opens it for him, and then steps back instead of entering right away. For a moment, she thinks she should have her own knife, and it’s strange because she’s never thought like that before.

 

Blink and all of the sudden, Patrick’s handcuffed the woman and is taking the gag out of her mouth, giving her a brilliant smile. "Hi. I'm Patrick, good to meet you." Clara moves into the building, shutting and locking the door before moving over beside him. He seems so natural at this - and so her attempt begins. She waves at the woman, giving her a smile too.

 

Words are spilling from their captives lips but no one’s really listening; Patrick’s too focused on his partner in crime, Clara’s too focused on impressing him. The girl gives all the usual pleas 'help me' 'I've done nothing wrong' 'I'll give you money'. Patrick wants to interrupt her, but doesn't because he knows Clara will want to hear her story.

 

"Everyone's done something wrong," is Clara's main response to what the woman's been saying, at least she tunes in at that point. "I mean, even if you just told a little white lie that's still something you've done wrong. Tell us the most awful thing you've done. That'll make for a good story for you."

 

The woman's too shocked to do what Clara's asking. He can always tell when they're gonna be a talker or just yell no and please stop every now and then. He decides that she might be quicker to tell her story if she's being threatened.

 

"Make it quick, or I might just cut out your pretty little eyes, sweetheart,” Clara thinks he’s talking to her for a moment even though he’s perched over the woman, knife out. When the woman starts to shoot out what she's done, Clara's satisfied and forgets the fear of being Patrick’s victim; at least to a point. Clara decides to buy herself a journal to put everything she’’s thinking in. The woman says she cheated on her boyfriend when she was younger, and that's enough for Clara to justify the murder.

 

"Her boyfriend obviously didn't look like me,” Patrick laughs, playing the game because he’s bored, giving Clara a kiss.

 

A soft sound leaves her lips and she kisses him back, fingers moving to his cheek. "No, obviously not. No one would dare cheat on you, my God."

 

It's worth it when he turns his head back to the woman on the floor; that look of fear can never be recreated. She's about to be murdered by a couple of psychos who will probably spend more time talking and flirting with each other than they will seeing to their victim. He looks back at Clara and whispers in her ear, "Two steps to your left, under that floor board; you'll find something that you can use."

 

Clara grins widely at that and then she goes to the floor board, lifting it up and reaching in to pull out the weapon. At first she spends her time gazing at it before she replaces the floor board and then moves back to his side. Watching her hold the axe, she looks like a child at Christmas. He could think of a few easy items to already put on her list when the time came. He knees down beside the woman and runs his hand up her leg. "You know, you haven't told us your name yet. Clara will wanna know. And you really don't wanna upset her right now."

 

The axe fits in her hands nicely and she is swinging it back and forth a bit like a golf club. "You probably really don't - I mean I've never gotten to use an axe before so who knows what I could do to your little body. How much jogging do you do, by the way? I might want to steal some of your hoodies after this."

 

"Gemma," the girl blurts out eventually. But she's hardly being any fun by holding her breath and just staring at them with wide eyes. Patrick would have thought that threatening her would be enough but she's just crying and mumbling hardly anything clearly. "If it was just me here, I would have killed you already," he admits softly to the girl, giving her a pout before she plants a kiss on her cheek. "Such a shame, such a shame."

 

"We could make it more fun by giving her a choice," she pipes up after a little while. The girl's a mess and Clara doesn't see the appeal right now.

 

"Go for it," he tells her, sitting back to watch and folding his arms across his chest.

 

He seems angry - or maybe he's just judging her, but whatever the matter she goes to sit next to Gemma and she smiles at her, setting her axe to her side. "Now see, it's just us girls. So I'll give you a deal, okay? Either you start screaming and being interesting and at least pretending to fight for your life - or else we'll keep you alive." And she knows that the girl looks confused at that so Clara goes to elaborate. "We'll keep you alive, and we'll start to cut off little parts of your body." She goes to grab her hand and she strokes over each finger carefully as she speaks about each one. "First we'll start with the ring finger, send it to the person you cheated with, then the middle finger to the boyfriend. And then we'll cut off all the rest of them and send them out to your various family members. After that, it'll be your toes, and then your feet, and then up your legs. Then maybe we'll get rid of your hands and your arms. We'll keep you hopped up on drugs, make sure your body barely recognises what's happening to it and all you can feel is pain. Then, whenever we get bored, we'll cut off your breasts, pull out your organs, and we'll stuff your heart in your mouth. Then we'll put you back in your flat all nice on the bed - at least what's left of you. But all the king's horses and all the king's men won't be able to put Humpty back together again." She moves to kiss the girl's cheek. "So there's your choice, Gemma, make it wisely."

 

Patrick's watching her and it isn't until she's finished speaking that he realises that he's been crying. Nothing major, just a few tears of admiration. In just a few weeks, she's made him feel such a mixture of emotions. He wants to hate her for it but it just makes him curious and eager to explore new things with her. She's learnt so much from him and he's sure that she must have read most of those books on serial killers that he'd mixed in with the fiction as well. Everything leading up to this moment had paid off.

 

Gemma's moved on from shock to denial. "There's no way you'll kill me, no way," she mutters quietly and he's surprised that she has the balls to stand up to Clara. She's doing a pretty good job right now and he doesn't want to help out yet incase she thinks that he's disappointed in her. The volume builds up though and she's yelling that they wouldn't dare touch her. They're just crazy and they should let her go because she's innocent.

 

The girl's ultimate denial makes Clara frown - oh they're more than capable of killing her. Soon she's grabbing her axe, poising it just in between the girl's lips. "Say one more thing about us being crazy, and I swear I'll use this axe to split your head like a watermelon."

 

The woman then starts screaming like her life literally depends on it. It's music to Patrick's ears and he laughs at the watermelon comment. "Crazy maybe, but we're never boring."

 

She pulls her axe away and grins at him. "No, never that. Suppose it's your turn then, my God - I got her to stop being boring."

 

"That you did. It's always a problem not knowing where to start," he considers, looking the woman up and down. He feels like they've been in the room for hours and all of the woman's body is still in tact. He can't very well have that. So he decides to as he previously promised, moving over to her and then running his knife over her eye socket. He teases it for a moment, scratching the eyeball carefully. She's screaming and he can feel Clara's eyes on him, watching his every move as he sticks the blade into her eyeball.

 

There's a general rush whenever she watches the knife sink into the eye, and she moves a little closer. "Can you pull it out whole?" she asks.

 

"Yeah, it's never normally a problem," he whispers but his hands are sticky with blood as he uses both his fingers and the knife to ease the eye out of the socket. Gemma's cursing and her body's shaking. "Stop moving you nearly made me drop it you dumb bitch!" Patrick yells at her, but he has it in his hand and holds the knife in the other as he passes the prize to Clara. She takes the eye in her hand, gazing at it and messing with it. "It looks like an olive," she murmurs.

 

"I've never thought of that before" he says and he's looking at it in a different light. "Your turn again, my sweet Goddess."

 

First, she goes to set the little eye down so it doesn't get all dirty, and then she goes over to the woman. She moves to stick her finger in the eye socket, listening as the woman starts to thrash around. Interesting that she's still fighting now. Clara moves, then, to sit on the woman so she stops moving around and she takes her axe in her hands. It's too big for her to be able to do much this up close, so instead she sits it down.

 

"You know how people believe in all that shit about how there's one single God and how he sent his son to Earth and blah, blah, blah, Gemma?" She waits for an answer, gets sobbing and pained sounds instead. "Well, I don't believe in any of that, because the only people who are that powerful are people like Patrick and I - but Patrick ... he's my God and I worship him just like how he worships me. That's a good relationship, see? Maybe you should've learned to make someone your God too." She's then moving to press her lips to the woman's. "Or maybe you want a goddess, I'd really like it if you could call me that too. Maybe I won't gouge out your other eye if you do."

 

Patrick's got a big grin on his face. She's about to give her a teacher's lesson like she would one of her students. He can tell that it's the same tone of voice that she would have used with the children. It makes the act seem more sinister and gives layers of meanings to the way that she says the words. He never had taken Clara for a religious woman, but he'd never even thought to ask. She would have been praying to God every night before she fell asleep if she really believed and wanted to escape him, he supposed. But then again, it would have given him another reason to focus all his attention on her and do a lot more than just break a couple of her fingers. She has confidence in what she's saying; that they are the true Gods and have all of the power. She's 100% under his spell and he hopes that Gemma's jealous of the relationship that they have; the trust and the excitement.

 

His eyes widened as she leans in to kiss Gemma, on the lips this time. He's hoping that he'll get to see them kiss more but he doesn't get his hopes up. "You'd make such a beautiful couple," he compliments.

 

"I....I," Gemma stutters but the words aren't forming.

 

"Come on, Gemma, my prey - I don't have all night," she kisses her again - only for Patrick's sake. "Call me your goddess, or else say goodbye to your sight." She reaches her hand down to slip toward the girl's cunt. "Though I don't need you to have both eyes to make you feel good."

 

Part of Patrick doesn't want her to say anything, just so that he can watch them kiss again. Then her hand is moving down the woman's dress and he makes eye contact with Gemma's one remaining one, giving her a wink as he palms his cock through his trousers. That's enough to make her blurt out, "Goddess, yes - whatever. Please just stop."

 

"Silly thing, though, Gemma ..." She gets up and goes to borrow Patrick's knife, moving on top of the girl again. "You really can't trust everyone." She shoves the knife down around the girl's eye, working hard to pop it out of the socket. After that, she's sitting there, petting the eye. "Thank you for the name though," she then gets up to hand Patrick back his knife.

 

"You are positively evil." he moans playfully as he watches her play with the other eye. "I was hoping you'd get to second base with her at least."

 

"But I like watching you get hard. And who are you really going to fuck, the girl with the unclean cunt, or the one who will only ever be yours?"

 

"You, of course." he sighs against her neck as he plants some kisses there. "Besides, she's only lost one of her senses. She just won't be able to see all of the fun she's missing out on."

 

She lets out a soft sound at his kisses. "Let's fuck on top of her," she suggests.

 

He takes a moment to consider it, seeing the body shiver with fear again. "Only if you try and eat her out first."

 

"Alright." She grins and then pecks him on the chin before going over to the woman. She crouches down, ripping her underwear away, and then she goes to move her lips to her clit, lips moving against it roughly.

 

Patrick undresses himself as he watches her, enjoying the cries of protest that come from Gemma. He needs to let the blind woman know what he's doing, so he whispers words of encouragement to Clara as he starts to stroke his cock. "Good girl, let the slut remember what she'll be missing once she's gone."

 

She hangs on to each praise Patrick gives her, and she starts to bite down over the soft pink tissue of Gemma's cunt. Soon, eating her out isn't enough, so Clara brings her fingers up and drills three of them into the woman roughly as she keeps licking and lapping at her cunt.

 

Patrick moves closer to where Clara's sitting between the woman's legs, to get a much better view. The only noises that fill the room are the sounds of his hand pumping his cock and Clara's fingers and tongue sucking at the wetness of Gemma's pussy. "Please - I don't want - I don't want to come," she manages to choke out through her sobbing. Patrick's free hand is in Clara's hair, pulling on it as a thanks. "Clara's very good at making people come and she's not going to stop no matter how much you scream" he assures with a gentle laugh. Then his focus is back on Clara's fingers and how deep they are thrusting inside the girl's cunt. "Was her pussy that wet to begin with, or is it all your doing?"

 

A chuckle leaves her lips and she goes to murmur to him, "All me, my God. I think she does want to come, though, I know I would right about now." She's then shoving even a fourth finger into the girl, going to pull at the tissue of her cunt with her teeth.

 

He nods at that, wanting the woman's body to completely lose control. "It always tastes a bit strange to me, biting at the cunt - but in a good way. You can't really describe the taste. But it grew on me." His cock is aching and he knows that he's going to come himself soon, so he stands above where Clara's head is, ready to shoot his load into her hair.

 

Its overly frustrating her that the woman hasn't come yet, and so she moves her fingers faster and starts to press her lips against the woman's cunt even harder than before. She's making awfully pleased noises - all for Patrick. She wouldn't be doing this if it weren't for him.

 

As if on cue, Gemma begins to moan as if she can't stop herself. Patrick watches her body move as the orgasm takes hold of her and then looks down at the Goddess eating her out. "So fucking beautiful," he moans as he comes.

 

Once he comes she's pleased. She moves away from Gemma, and then whatever of his release she can save she does. She licks it off her fingers from where she collects it from and then she looks up at him. "It seems, then, that I'm the only one who is being forced to go unsatisfied, and that just doesn't feel right to me."

 

"I'm sorry love, how would you like me to make it up to you?" he teases, taking her by the hand and leading her over to sit on the woman's body once again.

 

She just grins up at him, going to slowly slide her dress off and toss it to the side. "You shouldn't need any direction."

 

He rips her knickers off and immediately moves his head down between her legs. His hands move to her waist, pushing her back a little. He starts to eat her out for the first time, lapping at her juices with his tongue and taking her clit between his teeth. She spreads her legs open wide, one hand going to the back of her head so she can push him down just a little bit. She moans, free hand settling on one of Gemma's breasts so she can stay steady. He gets lost in the taste of her, realising that it's all been a result of dissecting this woman. Her moans urge him on as his tongue moves over her clit over and over again.

 

The orgasm comes before she even realises it and she cries out, bucking up against his lips. "Thank you, my God,” she cries out.

 

"You're welcome, Goddess." he smiles as he lifts his head up, licking his lips and then going to kiss her once again. Gemma's making noises again and Patrick grins, "I think she likes that we used her like that, she feels honoured."

 

"She better," Clara says, smiling at him. "Who wouldn't?"

 

"I wouldn't care."

 

"You don't count," she laughs softly. "You're never the victim after all."

 

"And I never will be."

 

"Never ever," she promises, moving to wrap her arms around him. "Because you're the God and everyone else is simply under your command."

 

He smiles at that, giving her another kiss before he picks up his knife and begins moving it up and down Gemma's body. "Shall we put her out of her misery?"

 

"I suppose so," she murmurs, moving so she's looking down at Gemma. "Go ahead, my God, I've already done too much."

 

He moves to the other side of Gemma so that he can watch Clara's reaction to him. He's digging the knife into her flesh, moving it down through her stomach.

 

She watches with hunger as the blood starts to rush out. Her body is slowly learning to get turned on by this and she goes to start stimulating her clit - knowing full well that he's watching.

 

Patrick's knife and hands rip at the flesh as blood seeps through the cut and sprinkles onto his body. He cuts deep through the skin and makes his way up back up to her breasts to cut off her nipples. The knife then cuts through the breast tissue, letting blood pour out and flow down towards the hole in her stomach. He's not concentrating as hard as he uses does, because his attention is mostly on Clara and the way that she's fingering her cunt as she watches him. He leans over the body and presses his cock against the blood, covering the length of his shaft with the tissue he's removed from her breasts.

 

She can't lie - he's the most attractive man she's ever seen when he's killing. That pushes her to start pressing her own fingers into herself, to bite her lip to hold back moans. She hopes she's pleasing him - that's her goal now; please Patrick. Whenever his cock is covered in blood she wants to go and suck it off - but she's waiting for him to make the move.

 

"What did you first say when we decided it was my turn to pick the girl? Make sure she isn't prettier than you?" Patrick recalls, dropping the tissue on the floor and then moving his knife back over the now-dead woman's face. Her eyes are gone, but those big lips still suggest that she was formerly a very pretty girl. He hold the head in his hands and instead decides that he wants to separate it from the rest of her. Then he can bring it over to Clara and they can appreciate it together.  Normally he'd get the chainsaw out but it's so noisy. The knife was an option but really he wanted Clara to be able to use her new weapon. "Why don't you use your axe to chop that pretty little head off?"

 

After he speaks she stops fingering herself, a grin pulls over her lips and she watches with curiosity. She stands and moves to get her axe which has been left unattended near the woman. She pets the blade of the axe for a moment. "Thank you, my God." She murmurs, moving over the woman and judging where she'll need the axe to go. "Pity that she thought we were never going to kill her, huh?"

 

"Yeah, normally the best part is when they beg for their life," he muses sadly. But then she's standing in front of him holding the axe above Gemma's head, and he can't dwell on the sadness for too long. He presses up against her from behind, towering over her as his arms move around her waist - before his hand moves down to her cunt and he's thrusting two blood-soaked fingers inside her. "Get it off in one. Clean. Hit," he pants into her ear; moving his fingers with every word he whispers.

 

As soon as his fingers are in her its game over for poor little Gemma's head. She moans at his touches but she stops as soon as he speaks. She'll do exactly as he says - one clean hit. It might be a difficult task but she's trying so hard to please him. The axe is soon raised up higher and even with his distracting movements she's only got one target ... though for a moment she wonders what would happen if she turned around and threw the axe through his neck instead. Would she get to see the look of utter surprise in his features? How pissed would he be?

 

The thoughts soon dissipate and she's bringing the axe down as hard as she can, slicing right through the woman's neck. A large grin spreads across Clara's face and she licks at the blood that's splattered on her lips. Though the grin might be a bit fake - and on the inside she's so close to crying that it hurts. However she doubts that in his bloodlust he'll be able to tell - and with that giggle that leaves her lips how could he?

 

He pushes his fingers deeper inside her as the axe makes contact with the dead woman's neck. Clara's laughing and he's looking down at the isolated head on the floor, thinking about sticking his cock inside the mouth and fucking her face. But Clara won't like that and her pussy's so wet that he can't resist turning her around and throwing her body down on the floor next to the corpse. The blood on his hands stains her dress as he pulls it up above her waist and rubs his bloody cock against her pussy lips. "You did so well, My Goddess," he moans, teasing rubbing the head of his shaft against her but not giving her the satisfaction of slipping inside her. His hand sinks into the woman's stomach to coat his hand with fresh blood and then he's covering Clara's body with it, focusing on the area around her cunt.

 

The floor is her best friend at the moment - and she's watching him with a lustful gaze. His teasing makes her want him more and the blood that coats her body makes her moan. She finds it interesting how she used to be so afraid of sex but she's now trying her damnedest to make it into a weapon. The pleasure is intense, and she's rocking her hips toward the head of his cock. He locks eyes with her, enjoying her moans as he finally thrusts inside her. The blood is pouring down their skin as he pounds into her, holding onto her tightly. "I love fucking your cunt," he growls at her.

 

She groans at that statement. "It's all yours, my God." And she knows it probably always will be. She's rocking her hips to roughly meet his.

 

He's fucking her fast and hard, the way that he fucks his victims. It's completely different from Clara's first time; this is about bloodlust and need. He wants to fuck her so that she won't be able to walk and she'll have to stay in the warehouse again where he'd suggest that she eats from Gemma is she's hungry. He wants her to know that she has no control over him, it's still all the other way around. It is starting to hurt - him drilling into her like this, but she's forcing herself to take the pain because of how sure she is that she can. She never stops moaning, at some point she thinks she orgasms, but she isn't really sure. She keeps crying out phrases and his name and she's clutching the ground because she doesn't feel like it would be safe to clutch on to him.

 

He can tell that she's in pain from the look in her eyes and he thinks he sees tears forming there - but the blood's a big distraction. He can't bring himself to stop because he just wants to come so badly. She's killed for him, now she should do anything that he says without hesitation. if the mask falls and it's too clear that she's not enjoying as much as she should be, he'll have to cut her tongue out. After he keeps going she forces her hips to start moving again. She moves her hands to her own breasts, moaning, pinching her own nipples as he's fucking her. She knows that if it looks like she isn't enjoying it she'll disappoint. He closes his eyes as he comes, still holding on to her but hardly acknowledging her presence. Something's not right and it causes him to slip out of her and crawl back over to the dead body, studying it is if it's the first time he's seen it.

 

Somewhere miles away, he thinks he hears a glass fall. There’s a fly by the corpse. The fly stares at him. Music is playing in his home still. They never turned it off. He’s wearing red gloves. No, it’s just blood. What is reality? The question becomes important. Then it fades. There’s a girl in this room. A living breathing girl. Her name is Clara. His name is Patrick. They’ve just killed someone named Gemma. Something is wrong.

 

"Patrick?" Soft. Sad. That’s her voice. Soft, sad Clara.

 

He's running his fingers through the blood of a stomach as if it’s a beautiful river. "Do you love me, Clara?" he asks softly.

 

It's a hard question to answer, but the simplest answer is, "Yes." Even if he doesn't feel the same way about her.

 

"Then why are you afraid of me?"

 

"I'm not afraid of you."

 

“You're a good liar, but I'm better."

 

She's silent for a moment, "Because you keep saying I'm your goddess but every time I look in your eyes, all I can see is lust and the desire to kill. Are you still planning on killing me eventually, Patrick?"

 

"Yes," he says without hesitation. now she has a genuine reason to be afraid. The fly is gone. Clara is sad. What is he? "Eventually."

 

"Whenever you get bored."

 

He nods, still facing away from her. "I"m sticking to my word though; I'm not lying to you."

 

"I know. Do you think I'm lying to you?" She's standing now, watching him carefully.

 

"I think that you're very scared of me - and of death. I don't understand why you're so afraid to die."

 

"Aren't you?"

 

He chuckles at that, finally turning around to look at her. but he feels like he's looking straight through her. Patrick Bateman does not exist. It is a fact. Clara Oswald doesn't exist anymore either. "No. When I get too bored of this whole thing, I'll just kill myself. "

 

"Maybe we could kill each other." Or maybe she'll just kill him.

 

"No.”

 

"Worth the offer," she shrugs, then she starts to move toward the axe. "Are you going to make me stay here tonight?"

 

"Yes, I should think so."

 

"Okay," and it makes her angry that he is. More than that, even. She takes her axe and she heads over to her mattress, curling up on it.

 

"I want you to have a good think tonight. Tell me how you're feeling in the morning." What is he doing? He isn’t sure. The words are alien, so is this place, so is the girl on the mattress curled up with a fucking axe.

 

"About what?"

 

"About everything."

Clara is silent, staring at an old box. For a moment she's not thinking about anything just to spite him, but then everything starts pouring in. Although he's still in the room, there's practically an eternity of everything to sort through. He leaves before she knows he’s gone.

 


	12. Chapter 12

That night she doesn't sleep. At first she cries - she can't help but to cry. She's been left in this warehouse again just when she thought she'd be able to never have to be in it again. She's given her virginity over to someone who doesn't care about her in the least and she feels like a fool - a pathetic fool. Her self pity outweighs all other emotions and for a while all she can do is think about all the things she's done wrong ... and then she thinks about the Doctor. If he knew everything that she's done he'll never let her travel with him again. And it isn't like he's tried to find her at all, maybe he's already moved on. Danny is dead, and though that's something that she's finally realised was inevitable, she just wants someone who cares about her to be around. Her family thinks she's dead, and she finds solace in that thought because it's better than them knowing she's become a monster.

 

Everything comes full circle back to Patrick Bateman. Does she love him? Does she hate him? She can't even decide that for herself. But him being disappointed with her makes her feel guilty and even more upset - her dried up tears being joined by fresh ones as soon as she realises he may end up killing her just for loving him - and that he will definitely kill her for hating him. She doesn't know what to feel anymore, and after all of her thinking, she finds that she doesn't feel anything. Every emotion shuts down and she just feels numb.

 

Patrick spends most of his evening bored; watching porn and gangster movies on his laptop. His bed feels bigger without Clara there to warm it, but he hopes that he's giving her the space she needs. The more he thinks about it, the more he’s convinced that the best thing is for him to just kill her and be done with it.

 

To try to get the numb feeling to go away, she decides to go to the dead woman that's been on the floor all night. For a while, she just studies the body. Then she searches about for the chainsaw he'd used before and she teaches herself how to use it. At first it's difficult to control, and she's practicing on boxes so they're not the most substantial things. But soon she's able to cut one right down the centre. It's morning, and she can tell because the sunlight just barely comes in through a crack near the roof. That's when she starts to cut up the body. It makes her feel something, and she's comforted by the fact that she can still feel.

 

He comes to check on her early the next morning, surprised to hear the sound of the chainsaw as he enters the warehouse. For a moment he thinks that she might be using it on herself and he's shocked, disappointed, and angry. Then he sees that she's cutting up the dead body from the night before. Her face is blank - incredibly hard to read. He passes her over a body bag. "I was gonna do that by myself."

 

She only looks over at him once she's done, taking the bag. "You took too long," she says monotone, getting down on the ground and starting to place pieces of the corpse into the bag.

 

"How do you feel?"

 

"I feel fine. How do you feel?" 

 

"Normal. I mean, for me."

 

"Good for you." She zips up the bag and hands it to him. "There, suppose you wasted a trip."

 

"Thank you," he tells her too politely. "Anything else you want to say to me?"

 

She watches him for a moment before speaking, "That I know you don't care about me at all and that you're going to kill me very soon because I'm boring now."

 

He sees no reason to deny it. "It's what always happens."

 

"I remember you saying that you didn't like to be predictable - but you're very predictable. I just took longer to corrupt than all of these other girls is all - and I happened to look like Jean. That's why you waited so long. But after I die you're never going to find enjoyment in it again and you're probably going to wind up killing yourself. No Jean. No Clara. Just work, work, work, and whores who will never worship you."

 

He's stunned for a moment, wondering if it took her all night to come up with that. "And what's the alternative? Fall in love with you? Are you going to save me from myself, be my teacher - Miss Oswald?" he spits at her.

 

She moves to gently slide her fingers across his jaw. "There is no alternative in your world. I think you don't feel anything, so it doesn't matter to you who lives or dies. In the end, the plane you live on is just empty."

 

"Then why do I wish that you could be the same?"

 

"Because if everyone is the same as you then you don't have to worry about being judged. You don't have to worry about being what society dictates as normal - you are the normal."

 

"I don't care what anyone thinks about me. Nobody even knows who I really am, apart from you."

 

"Then tell me why you want me to be the same as you."

 

"I thought we could be a team."

 

“Aren't we one?"

 

He feels like they're going over the same issues again and again and it makes him feel more bored. "You don't trust me."

 

Whenever she realises how repetitive this conversation is she stops talking. There's no point in denying that she doesn't trust him and so she just moves away. Though the effort of moving away is wasted; he grabs her by the shoulder then and pushes her up against the wall, holding his knife to her throat. "I told you I would never lie to you? I don't know what else you could want from me."

 

Normally she'd be afraid, but today she just shrugs, looking him in the eyes. "Telling someone something and then following through on that are two very different things."

 

"Like when you told me you loved me?"

 

"I do love you, I wouldn't have had sex with you if I didn't."

 

He laughs at that, "Oh, is that why it took you so long?"

 

"I told you before it had to mean something."

 

"It must hurt now that i've tossed you aside. Poor Clara. The woman in love with a serial killer. Have you thought of writing a book?" he mocks.

 

“Stop it," she murmurs.

 

"I'm only trying to help"

 

"I said stop it, Patrick."

 

"Make me," he growls into her ear.

 

She reaches forward, hand gripping at his hand with the knife and starting to push him away. "I can't."

 

"Why not?"

 

"Because you're stronger and cleverer than me and you know it."

 

“You flatter me, Mrs Bateman. But surely you've thought about it? I'm curious. How would you kill me?"

 

"I would never tell you, because then I'd be the predictable one."

 

Patrick screws up his nose in disgust. She's beyond boring now. He literally can't be bothered to listen to anything she's saying unless it's going to be something surprising or complementary.  "You're not as fun when I'm threatening you. What happened to my Goddess with a bloodlust for death?" He pulls the knife out of her hand and pins her against the wall with his body.

 

"You happened to me," she hisses. "Go on, Patrick, kill me. I know you want to, I'm boring now." She's practically daring him to do it - and maybe that's what all this is about with her ... She wants him to do it.

 

He really wants to just stab her in the chest to make her just shut the fuck up already. But he's looking at her and he's reminded how similar she looks to Jean. Maybe if he mucks up that pretty face, he won't feel so guilty once he delivers the final blow. And maybe it'll give him some closure and help him accept that he'll never see the secretary that was in love with him ever again. He rests his hand on her left cheek, palming it gently before the blade of the knife cuts across it. She flinches as the knife cuts through her skin. For a moment she doesn't feel anything ... and then she feels everything. All the love for him and all of the betrayal. She starts to cry, because she can tell he means it. But she won't beg for her life.

 

He pouts at her, "Why are you crying, sweetheart? I thought this is what you wanted." He cuts the blade through her other cheek. She looks much better already.

 

"I just wanted you to care," she whispers, shrinking away from the knife.

 

"Of course I care - or I would have just left you to starve in here. I'm making the **effort** to kill you. Further more, you did ask me to. You didn't even say please but I guess I've just got a kind soul."

 

She reaches forward to cup his cheek again, desperate. "I'm sorry for falling in love with you."

 

He stares at her blankly, but his voice is beginning to tremble. "Stop. Lying. For fuck's sake"

 

"I'm not lying," she promises. "I swear I'm not."

 

She's grasping at straws, he's certain of it. She'll say anything to stay alive. He slaps her hand away from his cheek. "Touch me again and I'll cut off your hand. Do you understand me?" He's yelling now, right in her face. She's crying but she doesn't look as scared as she's done before; she's nothing like the scared little girl he forced away from her boyfriend's funeral.

 

She shakes her head, trying to reach for his hand. "Patrick, please believe me."

 

"I don't even fucking care! What difference is it gonna make? I don't love you. I never will do. Surely you're better off dead and I'm doing you a favour."

 

"I just want you to believe me, Patrick! Please, you really are my God and you're all I've got."

 

He shrugs, rolling his eyes. "Fine. You love me. I believe you. Still want me to kill you? You can't make up your bloody mind, I swear." A hand cups her right cheek and his finger runs over the cut.

 

"Will it make a difference what I say?" She leans into his touch even though it hurts.

 

"I don't know. I'm getting hungry." he says off-handily.

 

"Then we could always go for chips."

 

"I can't stand greasy food. I just thought you'd like them. Anyway, no one would serve you now that your face is fucked up."

 

"What kind of food do you like?"

 

"I did really like your taste," he muses, disappointed with where the conversation's turned. But no matter how much he thinks about it, he can't just randomly stab her. It just doesn't seem right.

 

"My taste?" She asks, watching his expression.

 

"Your blood, your cum, your saliva." he says - and it's as if he's listing his three favourite things about her. His voice is calmer now, on the verge of returning to its normal volume. "I'm going to miss them."

 

"You could keep them, forever if you wanted."

 

His hands move around her neck and he's tightening his grip so that she struggles to breathe. After a few seconds, he loosens his grip so she can respond, "And is that what you truly want, Mrs Bateman?"

 

It is becoming a struggle for her to decide what she wants. She could remain with him and be his pet or she could die - and she's not sure which option is better. "Yes, my God, it is."

 

There's silence for a few seconds as they just stare at each other. She's starting to convince him that she's genuine, but he's sick of looking at those wide, confused eyes and that worried smile. "I don't think this is news to you - but I don't care what you want. I'm sick of hearing that you love me; you can't help me. You'll never be as fucked up as I am. I'd rather watch paint dry than listen to your cute little 'yes my God's and 'Oh Patricks'. I've controlled enough women, through all of my life. No wonder you're boring me to death. Play another record for fuck's sake. You're not fooling anyone and you know what, good luck to you and your life without me." He's picking her up and carrying her over to the exit. He doesn't care that her dress is covered in blood. He wants her to leave the warehouse and never come back.

 

At first she thinks, really thinks she's going to die. Maybe it would be better that way, but when he carries her to the exit she's confused and she's not sure what he's doing. Then, she does - he's letting her go. She doesn't even waste a second, this is what she's been working toward. A life. She's going to get to have one. And so she leaves through the exit, stumbling, not even bothering to say goodbye.

 

Patrick closes the door behind her and then sits down, leaning back against it. He looks over to where the body bag still sits in the corner, moments later he's on his feet again and off to get rid of the body. On his way he swears he walks past Miss Oswald, but it could have been another young brunette. He's letting the image fade from his memory, thinking of picking up a blonde girl next time instead.

 


	13. Chapter 13

The journey back home starts with her searching for public transport. The bus driver on the bus she makes her way onto asks her if she's okay and she breaks down next to them, crying and curling up on the floor. Her body is covered in blood - her cheeks sting as tears enter her cuts - the cuts he’s made. It’s all too much, and she starts feeling lightheaded. She vomits all over the bus driver, and then she blacks out. When she wakes up she's in a hospital. They ask her her name, she tells them. It isn't long until her family is there beside her. She sees her father and her nan and suddenly nothing seems too bad. She clings to her father, and he never leaves her side. The police ask her what happened, and she tells them that she was kidnapped by a man in a mask the day of Danny's funeral. She doesn't say that he made her kill. All she says is that he raped her and that she never got to see his face because he always wore the mask. She lies and says that his eyes were brown and that his skin was tan. They all believe her.

 

Her new life begins with her living in her father's flat. The first few nights are difficult because she'll dream about him or killing. She can't help but think about killing the people closest to her and it's such a disgusting feeling. At first she doesn't know if she can handle it ... but he was right about her writing the book. It's a wonderful idea. So she starts to - she'll never publish it, she keeps it hidden, but she spends hours and hours every day writing down each exact detail from her being captured.

 

It helps a bit that the media keeps doing interviews on her too. She's the head story for about a week or two before eventually she's left alone. When she is alone, she finally calls the Doctor, and he's the only one she'll ever tell the truth to. But he doesn't pick up the phone the first time, so her will to call him depletes. Some days she'll just sit around waiting for someone to want to talk to her, but it never happens. She lives one day at a time and she only thinks about Patrick Bateman when she writes about him in her personal book full of stories she can never tell anyone else.

 

Every time he sees her on the news he wants to smash his television up. He doesn't understand why he let her go; or maybe he just doesn't want to admit it to himself. They air her reunion with her family like it's some sick soap opera and he gets a glimpse of her father and grandmother. His stomach is in knots as they hug and kiss her. She was supposed to be his forever. She promised. He wonders if a charming reporter will ask her out on a date or if she'll get pity fucks when men in bars realise what she's been through. It's annoying that he has to force women to pity him. Every time human emotion surfaces, his animal instincts seem to take over and he's chopping up a body with the axe that used to be hers.

 

Then the television reports stop because the channel, the audience, and the producers are bored of her now. Nobody will know the full story and her father will never know that she once cut out a woman's eye ball. That makes him frustrated. Their story feels half finished and the channel 4 reporters have no right to stop him being updated on Clara Oswald's life. Maybe he'll have to find out for himself.

 

Pretty soon she's doing little things all over the community. She helps victims of rape, and she helps people who have been through other sorts of traumatic events. It's these sorts of things that make her decide to publish her book. Though she makes the events into fiction, and she makes his appearance correct rather than her false man in the mask. She changes the names within the book and a couple of the circumstances, but overall each thing is the same -exactly as it happened. She never uses first person - everything is in third but through her eyes. At the end, though, she puts it into his perspective. Deep down, she knows he'll read it and maybe that's why she does it - but she makes him seem like he isn't all that bad at the end. She talks about how he wanted to kill her, about how boring she had gotten in his eyes - she uses the exact quote from whenever he let her leave the shed. Then she says the reason he let her go is because he loved her and he'd never actually be able to feel the emotion of love, but that it still caused his decision.

 

The book gets published eventually, after she does maybe fifteen revisions. And she doesn't think anyone will read it, but they do. Police question her about it, and she swears that none of it has to do with the person who kidnapped her, but that it was inspired by her own feelings on her situation - though it's very real and very true. Each and every little detail besides the distinguishing things are real. The police still chose believe her lies.

 

He's had a particularly stressful day at work one day and he's on his way home. His mobile rings and he has to look at the screen a few times in disbelief before he answers the call. It's Jean. She's calling to catch up now that she has a new job - as a policewoman. He actually throws up on the pavement as he hears her rambling on and on about how lucky she is and how much she regrets losing contact with him. She even suggests - extremely timidly - that they go out for a drink some time. He wants to tell her how he had presumed that she was dead, murdered by someone like him and cut into little pieces. Or like Clara, she just didn't seem to love him as much as it had appeared. It seemed that he was extremely gullible and he hated the thought that he could share the same idiotic emotions as his victims. Clara had brought it out in him; all the sadness and pent-up frustration, jealousy of other people and their ability to love and be accepted for who they truly are. He wanted to be normal. He doesn't tell Jean any of this. He simply dismisses her propositions in favour of a good bath and the sound of a Madonna CD.  When he thinks of a woman's face, he always labels it as Clara's.

 

The weeks pass by and he finds that he's killing less. The whole charade takes a fuck load of effort and he's recorded a lot of the kills so just finds himself watching them back and jerking off to the memory of them. He considers getting his newest victims to wear the dresses he bought her, but they’re so plain looking that he hardly makes the effort to even kiss them before he kills them.

 

He's looking for reading material on his day off from work when he sees it. The front cover is pretentious and artsy; just what he expects from a girl who loves poetry. He stands in the corner of the store, reading it page to page. He dresses more casually on his days off now; a shirt and jeans. He finds that people approach him more and girls openly flirt with him if he walks past a bar or even a local cafe. He blends in more with the crowd, which might be to his advantage on a killing day. He feels more accepted by society as a whole.

 

Eventually, Clara forgets he's still alive. Well, she knows he is, but she forgets to constantly be worried about him showing up whenever she goes for a drive on her motorbike or when she decides to walk around. After her book is published for about a month, it becomes a bestseller. She isn't sure why, but everyone seems to take to it well. Soon, she's back on the news because of the book and she talks about how only some things were inspired by her own true events. She talks about how she wanted a book that correctly depicted murder and one that actually showed the hardships of being kidnapped and forced into that sort of situation. People try to find feminist views within, hidden messages, and she makes them up as she goes along.

 

Then the day of the signing comes. In a crowded library she reads a chapter of her book aloud, the first chapter - the one about her getting kidnapped and meeting him. It feels like ages ago, when in fact it's been maybe eight months. After that, she signs the books for people - the ages range from thirteen year old girls to eighty year old men. She never knew this would happen to her, but she's glad that it did - that she didn't die. Some of the people she signs books for cry to her about their own experiences and she does her best to console them. Pictures get taken with her and when the line is dying down she is relieved.

 

Of course he can't resist attending her book signing. He sits at the back as he listens to her read the first chapter of the book. It's hard to tell if the feelings she's describing are true; she claims that it's fiction and talks about how much the lead character loved her boyfriend. She hardly mentioned Danny at all after that first night, but maybe that was because she knew it would upset him. She had to do everything she could to please him and the struggle is portrayed poetically in the book. He notices she hasn't used any of the poems she wrote for him. They were meant to be reflections of the soul - but clearly they were lies as well.

 

He pulls his own book out of his bag. It's nothing fancy and he's never going to publish it. Plus, it's incredibly personal and possibly incriminating. Surely no one wants to read poems written by a serial killer. He includes so good sounding ones that he wrote when he was very young. They're about normal things; not fitting in at school, letting his family down, his crushes on girls and celebrities. Later ones are about the meaning of life and death, how short and unkind life can be and how beautiful death can be. He even throws in a couple from when he was at his prime as a serial killer; about his blood-lust and what it must be like to orgasm just before death. At the end there's a section called 'The Mrs' with a subtitle of 'Be More Natural'. They're all dedicated to Clara. They talk about her growth as a person and the way their relationship changed. The poems mention blood, cuts, axes, and sex but he hides the true meanings in metaphors. He describes the force with which he held her and her reluctance to give in and accept that her home was with him. The last few pages are about his life in the last few months without her and he's nervous about the reaction they might get. He wants her to understand that he misses her - truly. He's able to feel emotion because of her and he's bored of constantly killing. He needs something else. He needs her. He (probably) loves her.

 

He waits till last to see her. She looks tired and probably just wants to go home and he doesn't think he wants to cause any trouble. He just wants to see her and leave the book, with a note in the back with his mobile number if she ever wants to hear from him again. The front of the book just says 'Poems' by Patrick Bateman. He drops it down on the desk in front of her, along with a copy of her book to sign. There's a security woman sitting right next to her but he doesn't even care if she points and says 'That's him. Call the police.' At least it might make him feel something. He's never been arrested before. It might be fun for a while. He's wearing the same clothes he did the night that he first let her stay at his house. He hopes that she notices.

 

Everything in her life seems to crescendo at the moment she sees him again. At first she isn't sure what to do, but she stares up at him with those same wide eyes as before, smile faltering. She doesn't even have to ask his name for the signing - she simply writes it and then signs her own signature. She reaches for the poem book, still peering up at him. Her gaze says, 'Where did you go? What's wrong? Did you realise that you need me to survive and that I don't need you at all?' But she doesn't voice anything, except his name.

 

"Patrick," she says, and she wants to stand up and slap him or kiss him or something, but instead she's just handing the signed book back to him.

 

Patrick smiles weakly at her, thankful for her not making a big scene. The thought enters his mind that maybe she doesn't care enough to make a fuss; but then she wouldn't have had to express all of her feelings in a book. Except it wasn't all of her feelings. She made no attempt to make it clear if the character in her books fell in love with the serial killer. It was one of the reasons he had to see her, but he fears that this reaction says it all.  "Well remembered. I'm a big fan. If you have time, let me know what you think of my poems. Your writing is something to aspire to, Miss Oswald." he tells her gently before turning to walk away.

 

"I'll be sure to call you," she tells him as he turns away - surely he gave her a number somewhere or an address. The fact that she feels like she's going to cry is a good pointer to the fact that she really will call him, and she has to excuse herself. She's then going out the back of the building with the poem book and heading straight home - because she's going to read it and memorise it word for word, no matter how long it takes.

 

He feels some relief when he hears those words but his heart is still pounding quickly in his chest. He goes home and listens to music but of course it's a range of classic love songs. He's sitting in the dark, feeling numb as he imagines her reading his whole life written through sonnets. She can exploit it all that she wants - use it for a second book if she likes. He just wants her to know everything because she's the only one who's ever attempted to understand (even if it is all a lie).

 

After she finishes the poems she goes to call him, not even waiting to memorise them. Although its one o'clock in the morning when she does call. This whole book was his life written in poems and she's got to hear his voice again. She sits there, staring at her section of the book as she waits for him to pick up.

 

He's lying in bed, waiting for sleep to come when the phone rings. He's not tired. He's been waiting for this call. He picks the phone off of the bedside table and answers, "Clara".

 

"Patrick," she says back, and she keeps tracing over his poems with her finger like somehow they'll feel like him.

 

He doesn't say anything, waiting for her to tell him honestly what she thought.

 

She sits in silence for a few moment before beginning to speak again. "You just want to be normal, you never wanted society to be like you, you just wanted to be like society. Is that right?" She asks him. "And ... You're just jealous of what everyone else can feel so you kill to try to feel the same thing but it's not enough anymore."

 

"Are you gonna write that in your next book?"

 

"I'm not going to write another book."

 

He frowns at the phone. "But why not? I gave you a whole book full of material. Just say that the kidnapper sent it to his victim in the mail or something."

 

"But you wrote these, Patrick ... and they're your personal story. I wouldn't do that to you. Unless you ask me to."

 

"My personal story doesn't mean anything to me, not really. Apart from that last chapter."

 

Her heart clenches at that. "Patrick," she whispers, gripping onto the phone. "Please, just this once, tell me you need me."

 

"I shouldn't have to," he protests, his vanity getting in the way of any declarations.

 

"Yes you should! You threw me away like I was trash - tell me you need me or else I'm going to hang up this phone and I'm never ever going to talk to you ever again."

 

"I let you go because I wanted to know if you really did love me."

 

"I do love you, and I wrote a whole book about it and you're just too blind to see it."

 

"And you've read my poems." he mutters.

 

"Yes and I've read your poems and you just won't fucking tell me how you feel aloud ever. If you love me, if you need me - I want you to say it to me." She's not really angry - but she wants to hear him say it.

 

He relents and is thankful that at least she doesn't have to see his face right now. Maybe he'll only have to admit it this one time. "I love you."

 

She's quiet after that, and she stares down at the poem book. "I love you too." She'll never make him say it again. "When can I see you?"

 

"Well I couldn't sleep, so I guess I might as well stay up tonight."

 

"I'll come over then. Do you still live in the same place?"

 

"Yeah, I'll see you soon."

 

"See you." She hangs up the phone, sets the poem book in a safe place, and then goes to write a note for her father so he knows she's gone out for the night. She's not sure if she'll be back or not but she thinks the chances are pretty good she won't be. For the first time she actually gets to look how she wants to, so she dresses in whatever casual dress she likes the best in her closet and then she gets out her leather jacket and her motorbike boots. He's only ever seen her how he wants to or how she has to be and now she can just be herself. She rides over to his home, and then she puts her helmet and gloves away, smoothing out her hair. She's not sure she's very ready to see him again, but she appears at his door and she knocks gently.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you all for waiting so patiently for this next chapter. Hope you enjoyed!


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